Onslaught
by In the House
Summary: The 4th story in the Pranks universe. House and Cuddy go through their wedding and her pregnancy, but of course, things never quite go as planned. Will be Huddy, Wilson/House friendship, Jensen
1. Chapter 1

Hi readers. Special sneak preview here. This is chapter one of the fourth story in the Pranks set. This story IS NOT complete yet, although it's moving along. Therefore, completion will be a while, as the second part of it, the medical intense part, has a whole lot of work left. It's like the framework on a building without walls at this point; I know the shape and what it will be, but lots of construction still to come to make it usable. But the first portion is set earlier and less intense medically and angstwise, and I'd already worked over this first chapter to satisfaction. It will NOT be updated soon, nothing like my usual time. But consider this the trailer, like a movie preview. Coming this spring/summer to a computer near you . . .

I'm still debating between two or three different titles, so official title still to come. This one, like all of them, will be a roller coaster. Love is a great thing but doesn't solve all of life's problems.

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. If they were, Lucas would have never entered season 6, Kutner would have never left in season 5, and House and Cuddy would be together, although of course, it wouldn't be all wine and roses.

Fourth in the Pranks universe, following When Pranks Go Wrong, Desperado, and You Raise Me Up.

(H/C)

August 2009

"Good afternoon, Dr. House. Good to see you." Jensen held the door to his inner office open invitingly, and House entered with a short nod of acknowledgment, not conventional politeness but still a definite response to the greeting. Jensen smiled to himself at House's back, taking the brief opportunity to do it unseen. The diagnostician certainly had his own style about things, social conventions included, but Jensen by this point looked forward to these sessions all week, liking House for himself as well as enjoying his true progress in therapy. House didn't take his usual chair with the ottoman, instead picking the one just across from the desk, and Jensen's eyes became a little more intent. He walked over to the coffee pot in the corner, fixing two cups, and then sat down at his desk and offered House's, which the doctor took again without conventional thanks but with a brief flash of gratitude in the eyes, so quick that someone less observant might have missed it but no less sincere for that.

"So, Dr. House," Jensen began. He'd been seeing House in these sessions for over six months now, and Wilson had long since become James to him, but he still addressed House not only by his last name but always with title. They'd never discussed it, but Jensen had sensed from the first session that House appreciated the authority and respect, the sense of status, it gave him during the very tough conversations they had had by this point. House was in general more comfortable with himself as the doctor than as Greg. Getting the title, the formal recognition of his accomplishments, while talking about his horrific past made things a bit easier for him, and Jensen allowed him that. "How are the wedding preparations going?"

House smiled, an expression he had a lot more than formerly. "Not that I have a whole lot to do with them, but they're all set. Cuddy is chasing herself in circles, though, frantic to avoid that dreaded last-minute dropped detail." He never called Dr. Cuddy by her first name during these sessions, either, although Jensen knew he called her Lisa in private now. But his private doors were very thick ones, and even with Jensen, he held the slight distance of name from her. Jensen didn't think it was professional acknowledgment of Cuddy, like his of House, at least not in the sessions. Maybe at the hospital. But Jensen sensed that part of House wanted to treasure her identity as Lisa as his privately. He had had so little intimacy in his life. He clung intensely to it now, guarding it from the world. The fact that others knew of the relationship didn't bother him, but the relationship itself was still a wonder, hidden gold that he was mining on his own.

Jensen returned the smile. "With only a week to go, surely there isn't much she hasn't thought of."

"Try telling her that. I think being caught unprepared for something is one of Cuddy's recurring nightmares."

Too good an opening to miss. "Speaking of which -" House flinched "- how are you sleeping these days?"

House hesitated for a few seconds, and Jensen patiently waited him out, letting the response be his choice. "Overall pretty well. Still using the sleeping pills at half dose. I've only had one nightmare in the last three weeks, and I have headed off a few at the pass, I think. Noticing triggers in the day consciously instead of subconsciously, like you said. Not the most fun way to spend my thoughts, but it is better than the dreams."

"Excellent." Jensen leaned forward slightly. "You have made a lot of progress in only six months. You should be proud of yourself for that. I'm sure she's proud of you."

House had automatically deflected on the middle part of that set of statements, but the last caught his attention. "You know, I think she is," he said, considering it, and there was still an edge of wonder in his tone. "She says it, but I think she means it."

"I know she does. As she should."

House let that thought rattle around behind his eyes for a moment, then changed subjects, as Jensen had expected. Self-esteem was definitely a work in progress. At least he knew that a deflection by House did not mean the statement hadn't gone home, more the opposite. "Back to the wedding," House said, "she's got the ceremony all planned, the cake ordered, dress, photographer, etc., etc. More details than there are bacteria in the hospital. You'd think having me, her, rabbi, and a few witnesses would be enough, but nope, she wants the whole thing." There was a smile in his voice and his eyes, though. He was enjoying giving her the wedding she had wanted, even if 20 years late.

"What about her family?"

"She and her sister aren't speaking. She gave an ultimatum to her parents that they could come without Lyla but not with her." House shook his head slightly. "She insists that she and Lyla had a falling-out long coming."

"But you still feel that it's your fault?"

"Of course not. Nothing's my fault. See, I'm learning from these sessions."

Jensen smiled. "There's a whole lot of territory between nothing and everything. As much as you wish it, the world isn't completely black and white. Not everything comes in absolutes, and that's what you have trouble admitting." He changed back to the former subject himself that time, saving House the trouble. "What about your mother? When is she coming?"

House relaxed a bit but not completely. Less stressful to think of his mother right now than Cuddy's family. His mother was at least a known factor at this point, and their relationship had steadily improved all year. "She's flying in two days before the wedding."

"You haven't seen her since your visit to Lexington after her accident, have you?" Jensen asked.

"No. I've kept in touch with her doctors, though, besides my calls with her. It's been a slow recovery in some ways. She's still having problems with her arm and somewhat with coordination and balance after the head injury. Fine cognitively, fortunately, but there seem to be mild physical residuals from the double bleed. She's still in physical therapy." Jensen saw House's eyes tighten up on the last two words.

"What about you?"

"What about me what?"

"Something about physical therapy bothered you there. What were you thinking of?"

"Mom and her ongoing physical problems." Jensen sat in silent, polite skepticism, and after a minute, House relented. "I wasn't going to tell you about it."

"Whatever you weren't going to tell me, which is tied somehow to physical therapy, that's your choice. But you aren't going to be able to convince me there's nothing. Besides, you already gave yourself away at the beginning."

House looked puzzled briefly, then realization dawned. "The chair. Damn it."

"Right. You're either feeling distance from me and want the desk between us, which doesn't seem to be the case, or you've decided not to allow yourself physical concessions today such as propping your leg up." House didn't answer. "If you'd like to tell me, you can. Or if not, tell me that. But don't lie to either of us and say there isn't something bothering you related to your leg."

House sighed slightly, his eyes fleeing to the guitar hanging on the wall. "Go get it if you want," Jensen offered. House immediately stood and walked across to the wall, taking the guitar down from its holder. Jensen followed his gait with his eyes, confirming his earlier impression when House had walked in. House certainly couldn't have been described as having a normal gait, but it was no worse. His recovery over the last months from the severe ankle sprain and torn ligament had been steady, and right now, he was nearly back to baseline, using the cane but no more. House turned back with the guitar and found Jensen's assessing look on him.

"No, nothing's acutely wrong," he said, an edge of annoyance in his tone.

"I believe you," Jensen replied, calm as ever.

House sat down, his eyes annoyed but his hands soft, sensitive, feeling out the guitar with an almost loving touch. He strummed a few random chords as if shaking hands with the instrument, then started a light jazz tune. Jensen waited patiently. He would respect House's decision either way, but he wouldn't let him avoid making it. He had realized, too, that House's annoyance was much more with himself than with the psychiatrist. On some level associated with his leg, acutely and not just in general, House felt today that he had failed somehow.

Finally, House spoke, his eyes down, the guitar still singing softly. "You know I've been in PT for the ankle for several weeks."

Jensen nodded. "And you are making very good progress. You're almost back to baseline." One chord rang out a bit sharply, then instantly quieted, House soothing the guitar almost like a baby. "That's the problem, isn't it?" Jensen asked. He was leaning back in his chair, not closing the distance between them, still leaving the answer as House's choice.

House's lips tightened. "I've really been working at the PT this time. Did the exercises. Did everything. All that they've told me all along was what I needed to do."

"It hasn't really been long enough to make an assessment about the leg in general, especially considering the acute ankle injury you've been recovering from. PT could still improve your baseline to some extent down the road."

"Not soon enough." House's fingers picked up tempo, the tune becoming slightly agitated.

"I know you'd said you didn't want to be on crutches or still with a brace at the wedding, but you've accomplished that." Jensen was getting a better picture now, tying into the old self-esteem issues, but House needed to be the one to offer details.

The music chased itself through an increasingly complicated set of notes, and Jensen watched House's hands, fascinated. He was a decent casual musician himself, but he wasn't close to this. "You really are good," he said, noting that House didn't deflect that compliment either verbally or with body language. With music and with medicine, he was sure of himself.

House straightened up slightly, decision made, and the music settled down again, a steady but somewhat mournful tune now. "I decided several weeks ago that as long as I was undergoing PT for the ankle, I'd really work on the whole leg before the wedding."

"So that?"

House exhaled softly in defeat. "So that I could carry Cuddy into the hotel room on our wedding night."

Jensen forced himself not to flinch. He remembered his own look at House's leg in the ER that night. House had described his infarction and surgery since. Much of the quadriceps was simply missing. Long-term PT, much longer term than just a couple of months alongside another injury, might indeed help him, but the leg would never have normal function. Cuddy was a petite but full-grown, not to mention pregnant, woman. With her pregnancy combined with House's recent severe ankle injury on top of his general leg status, it would be foolish to try walking while carrying her. The goal had been pretty much doomed from the beginning, especially on this tight time table. Still, Jensen knew that any expression of sympathy or comfort would only annoy House even more than he was annoyed at himself. "You can't do it," Jensen said, stating a fact. A purely medical fact with no overtones of any accompanying failures.

House looked up, searching for pity, finding only understanding. "I know," he said. "I should have known from the beginning. Dropping her and our kid just to prove a point wouldn't prove it. And I'd probably psych myself out anyway; we've established that part of the pain flareups can be psychosomatic at times." His eyes fell again, and the guitar slowly stopped singing, the chords fading away to nothingness. "I already made myself fall a few months ago and wrecked the ankle. I can't trust myself to carry her, even if I thought it was physically up to it. But I don't. The ankle's about 85% now, but that's not 100. I can tell it isn't to full strength yet, and if I really stressed it abruptly with a bad step, I'm not sure that ligament would hold both of us. The thigh hasn't improved off of PT enough to compensate. It's not good enough to risk her and the child." He studied his silent hands on the guitar. "I tried yesterday all through PT to convince myself I could do this. But I knew better."

"Yes," Jensen agreed. "_Medically_ you shouldn't try this right now. But that doesn't ruin her dream wedding."

"That's supposed to be part of the overall wedding picture," House insisted. "Package deal with the dream."

"Dr. House, do you really think Dr. Cuddy will be thinking the next morning as soon as she wakes up about your failure to carry her into the hotel room and how that ruined the night? If so, it's your performance in other areas that should be concerning to you."

House looked up, startled, and then slowly the smile spread. "Maybe not her first thought," he admitted with a soft chuckle. "Okay, maybe not in the first hour."

Jensen shared the amusement, glad that House's perspective had shifted slightly for the moment. Hopefully he would remember that. He was, of course, 50 years old now, but Cuddy's current status against the short length of their intimate relationship proclaimed that whatever physical disabilities House might have were limited to his leg. "How did your father define himself?" Jensen asked abruptly.

House tightened back up, but of course, his father was a normal theme in these talks. "What do you mean specifically?"

"Did his definition of status include as a part of it physical accomplishments?"

"Definitely. That and military status." House smiled in remembrance, relishing the day a few months ago when he had destroyed all of his father's military decorations. Jensen gave him a minute to soak in that. That day had done House a world of good in his therapy, giving him something positive to put against all the negative memories. He had ultimately gotten the last word over John. After a minute, House continued unprompted. "He was a physical fitness fanatic, even beyond the basic Marine routines. He thought any son who wasn't in football or boxing or 'manly' sports was a failure. I went out for lacrosse instead of a more standard sport to spite him."

"When you succeeded in that, and in running, as I think you've said once, did he ever soften his attitude?"

"No. He didn't like to come to games. He never talked about it. Of course, music was far worse. That was openly sissy. That was the one thing Mom stood up to him about in my childhood, but he couldn't stand it." House looked down at his hands, flexing them. "He once broke my right fingers two days before a piano recital, just so he wouldn't have to hear others talk to him about his son being there and doing well when he knew I really ought to be out on the football field or somewhere more manly."

"What did you do to him then?" Jensen asked. House looked up to him, surprised. "There's a positive aspect to remembering that episode, along with the negative. Very odd. That's not your usual reaction to recalling specific incidents of abuse."

"I kicked him in the testicles." A visible ripple of pride ran through his body, and he straightened up. "Absolutely nailed him. That was right after he bent my fingers back, and he never expected me to resist. I hadn't since I was a small kid, but I was getting bigger by that point." House grinned openly. "He couldn't do anything for a few days. I know because he was even more harsh verbally than usual, and he was walking like it hurt. Probably made up some story for the guys on the base. But that's the last time he ever laid a hand on me. Verbal still, but nothing physical, not after that. Of course, he had a front for leaving me alone after that, just said I'd wasted enough of his time."

"Good for you," Jensen said softly. House met his eyes. "You took control and ended it when you physically could. You still kept the secrets because of your mother, though, didn't you?"

House nodded. "He always said he'd kill her." He shuddered. "I still think that part of him might have been capable of that." He shook himself, shaking off the memories. "Why does his attitude toward physical activities matter today?"

"Because he clearly drilled it into you enough that it still surfaces at times." House looked up, startled. "Why of all things would you select one minor physical failing, one very explainable and legitimate physical failing, and worry about the entire success of the wedding in your wife's eyes based on that? Just be aware of where part of that feeling comes from, Dr. House. That isn't entirely your belief. It is at least partially your father's. Don't give him a piece of your wedding night. He has no right to it." House was starting to look angry now, which is what Jensen had been aiming for. Anger at John was much better than helpless annoyance at himself. "Can I assume that your father also belittled your disability after your infarction?"

House nodded. "He never lost a chance to. He'd say I didn't need the handicapped parking spot, point out how real men got disabled, which was in combat, not in medical stupidity. He even told me that I didn't know how fortunate I was."

"So tell me, does he deserve to be part of your wedding night?"

"NO!" His voice was rising now. His eyes were glittering like angry blue diamonds.

Jensen nodded. "So give him a kick in the virtual testicles before then, and start focusing on your bride. She loves you. You love her. Your wedding WILL be perfect to her, because the most important aspect has nothing to do with details or carrying the bride across the threshold. YOU are what she wants. Nobody else, no matter how many good legs they have. If you are there, it will be her ideal wedding."

House was breathing a bit quickly now, and Jensen knew it was time to give him some space. After a minute, House nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Who is keeping Rachel?" Jensen asked, a change of subject that wasn't such a change. Jensen tried to mention Rachel at least once a session, to remind House indirectly if not directly that he was proving to be a very good father. House worried about his abilities there much more than he worried about carrying his bride across the threshold on his leg and ankle.

House immediately relaxed a bit more at the topic of Rachel, the slight smile returning. "Dr. Chase and Cameron in the evening, plus the nanny in the days. My mother wanted to, of course, but given her accident, she's not up to it."

"Did she accept that?"

"Eventually. I think she hoped it would work for a few weeks in there, but realistically, she knows it's not possible. Not with all she's still dealing with physically."

"And how did she take that?"

"She said she'd have to wait for her visits with the next grandchild. Which shouldn't be too long. Cuddy's due in January."

"And if her balance and coordination residuals from the head injury never permit her to independently babysit?"

House abruptly realized the carefully drawn parallel in progress. He nodded slightly, as if crediting an opponent in chess with a good move. "She'll have to accept it and find other areas to compensate. Right, I know. Don't say it."

"Save me the trouble then," Jensen countered.

"Her physical difficulties are not going to define her performance as a grandmother. Just like mine won't define me as a husband. It doesn't matter. I get it. Satisfied?"

"Not quite," Jensen said, catching House by surprise. The psychiatrist would usually obligingly back off of issues that had been set openly on the table and give House some processing space.

"What else do you want?"

"Tell Dr. Cuddy." House immediately tightened up. "Tell her about your plans for your wedding night to carry her into the hotel room, and that you've concluded it wouldn't be wise medically with all current factors considered."

"I thought I was supposed to distract her from noticing that by my sterling performance in other areas."

"No, actually, I think you ought to tell her in advance. You need to see her reaction. I'm sure she wouldn't be worrying about that on the night, but part of you still would. Erase it from the slate beforehand."

"I know what her reaction will be. I could even recite it." House abruptly switched voices, doing a very good impersonation of Cuddy. "But that doesn't make any difference at all, Greg. I love you anyway." He dropped back into his usual tones. "See? Why bother telling her?"

"If you're convinced it wouldn't matter to her, why not tell her?" House looked back down at the silent guitar in his lap. "Do you think she would lie to you?"

"I think she might lie to herself," he said after a minute.

"She isn't marrying an image, Dr. House. She isn't marrying a childhood dream. She's marrying a person, and people have scars. _All _people have scars," he added as House's hand went unconsciously to his leg. "You don't have to worry about not being her dream. She'd rather have the reality. Listen to her, not to your father, not to your own fears." Time for a subject change, he thought. He'd pushed on that line as far as he productively could with House. "How is the pregnancy going?"

"Fine. She's . . . _glowing,_ actually. She's gorgeous." House sounded slightly self-conscious saying it, but there simply was no other word for Cuddy right now. She was reveling in her pregnancy at this stage, well past the former problem weeks.

"That's wonderful. And how are you feeling about the child?"

The guitar picked up its former light jazz. "Looking forward to it," House said and then finished when Jensen eyed him steadily. "Mostly."

"You do still talk to Dr. Cuddy about your concerns as a father."

"I do, but . . ."

"But what?"

"It's like old conversations with Mom in a way. Where you're operating on two different realities. She listens to me, but it's like she doesn't see anything at all to be worried about."

"Two different realities. Interesting. And which one do you think is the real one?"

House hesitated. "I don't know."

"Very good," Jensen approved. House looked up at him. "You're at least considering the possibility that your perspective is the one in error. You really are making progress, Dr. House. And how has the leg pain been lately?"

"Pretty much baseline. Worse after PT, of course. It flared up last week for a few days with that thunderstorm." He looked up. "It isn't _all _psychosomatic."

"I know that, Dr. House. And I think your friends even know that at this point. You have a significant insult to the leg. There is undoubtedly real and significant pain associated with that and no doubt always will be."

House looked at his watch. "Any other little gems of truth for me today?"

Jensen allowed the dodge. They had covered some hard ground today. "Just one."

"Which is?"

Jensen smiled openly. "I am very much looking forward to the wedding. So are Cathy and Melissa."

"How are things going with her?"

"Very well. Tentative but well." Jensen and his ex had been dating again recently. "I did want to assure you, though, for all three of us, that you can introduce us however you like to people. Former patient and family works fine."

House considered. He had invited Jensen himself, his one request on the guest list other than Wilson, his mother, and the team, but he still was undecided on whether he wanted to announce to the world he was seeing a shrink. "I'm . . . not sure yet. But thank you."

Jensen smiled at him. "You're welcome, Dr. House. I'll see you next Friday in Princeton, not here."

"Say hi to Cathy."

"I will." Jensen pointedly didn't watch while House stood up, a bit stiff from sitting in the less comfortable chair. House carefully replaced the guitar on the wall before he turned to the office door. Jensen followed him, but House hesitated as he reached for the knob, looking back toward the psychiatrist. "What?" Jensen asked.

"You really think I should tell her?"

"I really do."

Without another word, House opened the door and went on into the outer office. Jensen stood for a moment in the doorway, watching him leave, before turning back to gather his things and head off for a Friday night dinner with his family. Once again, he silently thanked the blue-eyed genius who had made his own plans for that evening possible.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hi, readers. Here's chapter two. Don't let the smoothness of the early fluff bits fool you. As you might guess from the title, this one is definitely angst. In my opinion, it is possibly the most angstful of the four. I did finally pick the title, had been debating between three which were all similarly powerpacked.

Enjoy chapter two and thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

Cuddy was on two phones simultaneously and didn't notice at first when House came through the door. He stood in the doorway, watching her with an expression of half love and half exasperation. "No, it has to be yellow. If you can't get those flowers, match the color with something else, but it MUST be that shade of yellow. Or cream, that would work. Hang on a minute . . . yes, I KNOW he would have rather met this evening, but I was busy this evening, as I said, which is why that meeting was scheduled for MONDAY. His attorney can't just show up this evening with Monday agreed upon and then claim that we aren't willing to meet with him. Yes, I have the original email confirmation on the date. Tell him I will see him and his client Monday morning at 9:30, as we have agreed for the past three weeks. Right. Thank you . . . what is the big problem on an order that you've had for over a month? I don't care how much of a run there has been on flowers, you've still got a week, and I do expect a perfect color match to what I ordered." Rachel was in a swing in the corner, and she was looking at her mother with a slight tilt of the head, looking puzzled, wondering the cause of the frenzy. She abruptly spotted House behind Cuddy in the doorway, and she immediately brightened up and did her best to crawl out of the swing, failing, of course. "Dadadadada," she babbled enthusiastically.

Cuddy turned around to spot him standing in the doorway. Her welcoming smile was totally at odds with her administrator voice. "Right, you had better do that. I will be calling back next week to confirm that this problem has been fixed. Goodbye." She hit off on the cordless. The cell phone squawked at her. "What? Oh, I'm sorry, I thought the only reason you called was Mr. Thompson. Two ER doctors? Okay, go down the list and call in backup. Offer them overtime. Thank you." She clicked off the cell phone and exhaled deeply.

"Breathe," House recommended. "In, out, in, out. Remember, you and our daughter still need oxygen, even in administrative and wedding crises."

Rachel was getting more demanding. "DA!"

He limped over, stopping the swing and taking a moment to make sure his balance was firmly set underneath him before picking her up. "Hi, kid. Miss me? Or were you too busy telling your mother to chill out?"

Cuddy walked over to join them. "Would you believe Thompson's attorney showed up tonight at 7:30 at the hospital? Insisted we were meeting tonight, not Monday, and then got all high and mighty on obstructive tactics, claiming we'd backed out. Plus two ER doctors are out with that bug tonight. Oh, and the florist has had a run on flowers and wanted to know if the color could be just a slightly different shade." She shook her head. "Honestly, I think I'd rather have traded with you and gone to a psychiatrist myself. Less stressful." She realized what she'd said a second too late, and guilty acknowledgment of what House probably had spent his hour discussing flooded her face. "I apologize, Greg. I didn't mean to downplay what you're doing or why. Administrative crises aren't comparable."

He carefully secured his grip on Rachel and reached out with his free hand to touch her. "I'm sure the florist will work it out. How could they not, with you sheepdogging them?

"I know." She wrapped both him and Rachel in a hug. "I just want every detail to be perfect. This is the only wedding I'm ever planning on having. I want it done exactly _right._" She felt him tense up slightly. "What is it?"

"Nothing." He pulled back and headed for the couch, dropping Rachel with a semblance of force into the soft cushions while carefully controlling her fall, and she laughed. "I assume Rachel already ate. If you ate with her, I'll just grab a sandwich or something." He dropped onto the couch beside Rachel and subconsciously ran one hand down his thigh.

Cuddy refused the bait. "I waited, and it's almost ready. But we'll eat in a minute. What is it, Greg?"

He hesitated. "Something I was talking about with Jensen," he admitted after a moment.

Cuddy's forehead wrinkled in thought. That made detail-fishing challenging. It was generally understood between them that he shared only what he wished to from his sessions, with no pressure from her for more. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that something about his present, not just his past, was bothering him. Pry or respect his privacy? She watched him, smilng as Rachel climbed over into his lap and reached up to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt. He was so good with their daughter. She couldn't wait to see him with the baby in January. "Okay," she said finally. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But are you sure you're all right?"

"Fine." His eyes were grateful. "How are our daughters behaving tonight? Both of them."

"Rachel is wired for some reason." I can't imagine, he thought dryly. "But it's nearly her bedtime, and I'm sure she'll crash soon. The baby was taking up ballet earlier, I think, but she must be asleep now." She put one hand on her abdomen, still unable to believe that this was in fact her life. The pregnancy had gone so smoothly, not a problem at all, and she was now 4 months along.

House, looking up at her, thought again that she looked almost luminous these days. Even in the middle of frantic details as she'd been lately, she was radiant. She was _happy. _With him. Amazing.

"Is your leg hurting more tonight?" she asked, and he realized that he was running a hand along the thigh again.

"Not too bad," he replied. "It's just a little stiff from the driving this afternoon."

"You ought to prop your ankle up. You've been on it all day."

He captured Rachel in both arms, turning her like a pinwheel, upside down and then rightside up. She laughed again. "Your mama," he said to her, "is worrying about things too much. Why don't you tell her that?"

"Mama," Rachel repeated. "Mama. Dada."

Tears welled up in Cuddy's eyes. This was what she'd always wanted. Pity she hadn't seen that years ago, as she was now a bit wistful when she thought of lost time.

"Are you okay, Lisa?" House asked, seeing the glisten in her eyes.

"I'm absolutely wonderful." She walked over to pick up his leg herself and prop it gently on the coffee table, obsessively removing his shoe first. He rolled his eyes. "I'll go finish getting dinner on the table. You wouldn't have time to get Rachel down before it's done, especially as revved up as she's been tonight."

"Is that a challenge?" His blue eyes captured her. "I'll bet I could get her to sleep in no time. I am _that good." _

Her own eyes sparkled. "What would you bet?"

He started to say putting the topic of the wedding off for the rest of the evening, but then he realized that that would apply to him as well as her. He was still debating Jensen's advice. He worried how much she was stressing over every detail on the ceremony, though. She hadn't shown any signs of complications with the pregnancy, but he couldn't help wonder if his daughter would emerge from the womb with a Blackberry in one hand and a laptop in the other.

"Afraid to back up your claims?" Cuddy teased, taking his silence as lack of confidence.

"Hardly. If I get Rachel to sleep by the time dinner is on the table, you have to take a full 30-minute bubble bath later on tonight, during which time you aren't allowed to have a phone anywhere near you."

She had started to relax into the image, but the phone drew her up short. "Greg, there might be important things from the hospital that come up."

"30 minutes isn't the end of the world. I'll run interference. There's also this wonderful invention called voicemail. Did you know that people can still leave you a message even if you don't answer the phone that minute?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're on. And if I get dinner on before Rachel gets to sleep, you have to . . . " She skidded to a halt herself, having started to say tell me what happened with Jensen that's bothering you. No. She couldn't bet on revealing details from his therapy. It didn't deserve to be trivialized like that.

"Afraid to back up your claims?" House challenged, throwing her words back at her.

Her whole posture straightened in denial. "If I get it on the table before Rachel is asleep, you have to wear a tie to the hospital Monday."

"OUCH." He sat up a little straighter. "That's playing dirty. I should have raised the stakes. One hour in the bath away from phones."

"Too late now." She looked at him, stretched out with his leg propped up and a very alert-looking Rachel in his lap. This was going to be easy. Rachel had been very hyper tonight for some reason. "Do you want to work on it here, or go back to the nursery before we start timing?" She wouldn't penalize him for travel time down the hall, not with his newly healed ankle and while carrying Rachel.

He flinched slightly, hearing the thought, but he moved his leg down and heaved himself to his feet. He wanted to be in the nursery. He had a feeling that getting Rachel away from the whirlwind of purpose that was Cuddy lately would be soporific on its own. He headed down the hall, very aware of her standing still in the living room behind him. In the doorway, he looked back. "Okay. On your mark. Get set. GO!"

Cuddy blasted off, literally jogging from the living room to the kitchen, and House went on into the nursery. He settled into the rocking chair, holding Rachel against his chest, and he started to sing, gentle, soft lullabies, the chair keeping time to the beat. Rachel immediately relaxed and leaned against him, her eyes on his face. One hand reached up to feel his lips, and he moved it down to his larynx instead. Her eyes widened at the vibrations beneath her fingers, and she snuggled against him, listening to the music.

House let his eyes wander around the room as he kept singing. He was moving into Cuddy's house officially, with the last of his things coming over next week. His apartment was far too small for a family. This, of course, was yet another flurry of details that Cuddy had adopted, even though much of his things were already over here, and he had insisted to her that he had the piano movers and the large furniture movers all arranged. In fact, he also had a little surprise for her which he hoped would be a good one. But she still worried about placement of things, even though they'd agreed on it already. It had to be right.

It had to be right. Even rocking the chair, he was aware of how he was forced to use his left leg for leverage, not pushing off his ruined thigh. He wished for just one 5-minute stretch of wholeness again, so he could add that final detail next Friday night for her. He sighed and abruptly realized that Rachel was sound asleep on his chest. Still singing but in decreasing volume, he started to gather himself to get up, a bit difficult from a rocking chair while holding a child, and Cuddy stepped over from the doorway to take her daughter. He jumped as she came into view.

House stopped singing. "How long have you been there?"

"Just a minute. I was enjoying the music." She carried Rachel over to the crib and started changing her into a sleeper. "She was already asleep when I got back here, though. You cheated. Music is a secret weapon; I can't match that."

He forced himself to smile, although he did wait until her back was turned to lever himself out of the rocking chair. "So that's one hour in a bubble bath without phones in your vicinity."

"Nice try. 30 minutes." She finished with Rachel and pulled a light sheet over her. "Greg?"

"What is it?"

"What were you thinking about at the end there while you were rocking her? Your mind wasn't on the music."

He turned back toward the door. "Just life in general. We'd better eat before it gets cold."

She followed him down the hall. "You were _not_ thinking of life in general. Were you thinking about your appointment with Jensen?"

"Something we discussed there, yes."

She put one hand on his back as they reached the end of the hall. "Okay. I won't ask. But I'd be glad to listen if you like."

"Maybe later." He sat down at the table. "Not right now, okay?"

"Sure." She knew he didn't like talking about emotionally charged subjects while eating. She sat down and dug into her own plate. Her appetite, like everything else during her pregnancy, was rousingly healthy. They talked about amusing hospital stories of the week during the meal, and afterward, House ran her hot bubble bath while she cleared the table.

She was forced to admit it did feel _good_ to settle back into the hot suds, to relax, to feel the stressors of the week washing away. House made a show of confiscating the cell phone, but he returned after a few minutes and sat down on the closed toilet, just watching her. Life was so good right now. He had Cuddy, he had Rachel, and their daughter, with name still being debated, would be coming. He just hoped he didn't screw it up along the way.

"Greg?" He abruptly realized that she had called him a few times before he'd heard her. His eyes sharpened and focused. "Greg, are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

Tell her, Jensen had said. But she was supposed to be getting a break from detail mania. Reminding her of another dropped detail about the wedding, one she couldn't fix, wasn't likely to help her relaxation. "You're supposed to be relaxing," he objected.

"I'm trying to, and it feels wonderful, but having you sitting there obviously worrying about something is fighting the overall effect. I don't want to push you, but I think you need to talk about it, whatever it is. You've been on edge since you got home."

"_I've _been on edge? You're the one who was on two phones and didn't even notice me come in at first."

"Yes, but some very smart and sexy man told me I needed to let everything go for a while. And he was right. Let it go, Greg. It helps."

He sighed. "It's about the wedding."

She tightened up immediately. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"_What?_ No. Not at all. I've wanted this for 20 years. No second thoughts."

She slid back down in the bath, but her muscles were still tighter than before. "What then?"

"I want . . . I want everything to be perfect for you. Every little detail. You deserve that."

"It _will_ be perfect, Greg."

He shook his head slightly. "There's one thing I can't do. I thought at first maybe I could, and I've really been working at it for weeks, but I finally had to admit that I just can't. I can't do it."

She was good and confused now. "Greg, what are you talking about?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm not going to be able to carry you across the threshold into the hotel room that night."

"Of course you aren't." She was still waiting for some important revelation on the heels of the obvious, and she realized after a moment that nothing more was coming. "Greg, I know that. It doesn't matter."

He was waiting for the other shoe to drop himself, waiting for the quickly concealed disappointment in her eyes. It didn't come. "It's a detail that won't be right," he emphasized, as if he needed to draw her a diagram. "You deserve the whole package."

Cuddy would have laughed if he hadn't been so obviously dead serious. "Greg, I _have _the whole package. I have _you_. It will be my perfect wedding. I know I'm getting frantic over details, but even if the flowers don't work out, or if it rains, it won't matter. And it especially won't matter that you can't do something I hadn't given a moment's thought to anyway." He still didn't look quite convinced, and she changed strategies. "Greg, come here."

He stood up from the toilet and started across to the tub, and she held up a hand. "I mean into the bathtub. Come join me."

He stood in the middle of the floor like a deer in headlights. They had bathed together, of course, but always he had been the first to get in, usually while she was out of the room for something at the last minute - probably deliberately giving him privacy, he now realized. He had no wish to clamber awkwardly over the edge of the tub with his leg while she had a front-row seat for the show. "Maybe that's not a good idea," he started, trying quickly to think up an excuse that would work.

Cuddy shook her head. "Gregory House, I want you to drop your clothes and come here. Now." She leaned forward to drain a little water out and add some fresh hot, knowing the temperatures he preferred.

Feeling helpless, he slowly, very slowly, started to undress. He had to sit back down on the toilet to get his socks off. Finally, he was completely naked. Self-consciously, he started toward the tub, very aware of the hole in his mangled thigh. Cuddy held up her hand, stopping him again. "Just stand there for a minute. I want to look at you."

He closed his eyes, but he stood there obediently. She didn't say anything for a few minutes, and he finally opened his eyes again and was surprised to see her eyes surveying him with open admiration, even desire. She was looking at him, at all of him, as if he were the one who was beautiful. Finally, she spoke up. "Now come on. Get in here with me."

He limped awkwardly the remaining two steps without his cane, discarded with his clothes on the floor. He had to sit on the rim, then raise his right leg manually over the edge into the water, bringing his left across to join it, finally sliding down next to her. She had scooted over in the large tub to give him room. Her eyes followed all his progress, and they never lost that luminous glow. He felt warmed by them even more than the water, and he could feel himself starting to respond to her attention physically, even while part of him was still worrying.

Cuddy reached over, finally getting her hands on his body as she'd wanted to do for the last several minutes. Her hands had envied her eyes every one of those minutes. "Greg," she said, "you are _beautiful_. And I want you. Nobody else. I want _you._ Now, and on our wedding night, and forever."

At that precise moment the phone rang. They heard its forlorn signal through the closed door. House turned to look toward it, as if he could read the caller ID through the walls, and he waited for her responsibility streak to kick in. Instead, she captured his face between her hands and turned him back to face her. "There's this wonderful invention called voicemail," she said, and he barely had time to return her smile before her lips claimed his.


	3. Chapter 3

Here's chapter 3, rather short, but the next several are different glimpses of working toward and going through the wedding. These first few chapters are full of fluffy rainbows. And then, for the second and main plot, fasten your seat belts. I didn't mention it earlier, should have, and will remind folks again as we approach, but this story carries a high warning for dealing with sensitive subjects, namely abuse. Also remember that the latter part of S5 never happened, Kutner never killed himself (yay!), and House did not have his breakdown and Mayfield interval. The story is progressing nicely. Thanks for all the reviews.

The various film form references in here predated revelation of Wilson's youthful indiscretions. I thought this week's episode was hilarious, though. Could have watched speed dating and Wilson making a fool of himself (with the whole hospital egging him about it) all night. Who cares what the POTW had?

(H/C)

The bowling alley was a cacophony of noise on a Tuesday night, people talking, balls rumbling down the lanes, pins falling. House set his balance with the ball in his hands, then carefully limped forward a few strides and released. "YES!" he exclaimed softly as it rolled fairly straight down the lane. He was still getting back in practice after months off with injuries, first his wrist and then his ankle. Not that he had ever been a great bowler, but he enjoyed actually doing something physical, enjoyed being just another person in the crowd for one moment, not the man with the cane. Not a strike, he knew, but that release had felt the best of the night so far. The ball warbled slightly right at the end and took out four pins. House gave a surreptitious glance right and left to see if anybody had noted his reaction and compared it quizzically to the result, but secretly, he was pleased.

He turned to retreat to the machine and surprised Wilson with the same dopey grin on his face that the oncologist had been wearing for much of the last week. "Stop that," House grumbled, waiting for his ball to be coughed back up from the machinery.

"Stop what?" Wilson feigned innocence. "Did I say anything?"

"You look like you wandered out of the end of a Disney movie. This is LIFE, Wilson. Pretty good lately, but still, Disney was an idiot."

"Do you have any idea how much money he made from that stuff? Plus Disneyworld and all?"

"Okay, he was a rich idiot. Or maybe just a rich hypocrite." House considered that option, finding it more palatable.

"You can't fool me, House," Wilson insisted. "You're happy."

"Oh, shut up." House picked his ball back up and took his second turn, eliminating three more pins. He limped back to the chairs and picked up his beer. Wilson still was smiling, and House glared at him. "You do realize this is _my_ wedding, right?"

"Which is why it's bound to be better than any of mine." Wilson took a swallow of his beer, then stood up, striking a dramatic pose. "Just think of it. Their love refused to be denied, smoldering over the decades until it burst into full, exuberant flame. Now, two hearts will finally become one as they pledge their eternal troth. . ." Wilson skipped back as House swatted at him with his cane.

"Now you're sounding like the back cover of a Harlequin romance novel."

"Have a lot of experience reading those, do you?" Wilson asked.

"No, I just heard someone compare them once to fancy porn, and that's exactly what you sounded like. Would you take your turn already?"

Wilson picked up his ball and headed for the platform. "Nope, you two are SO Disney." House threw his cane after him, then immediately regretted it as the wooden support clattered noisily across the polished floorboards, attracting looks from several lanes each way. Wilson immediately produced a slight limp, which knocked his usual precise throw off, then retrieved the cane. Using it until the last minute and still limping, he took his second turn, then leaned on the cane to limp back down to the seats. Sympathetic eyes followed him, then self-consciously turned away. At least nobody had looked at House.

"Thanks," the diagnostician said softly under his breath as Wilson arrived in front of him and offered the cane.

Wilson gave him a brief nod, knowing he wouldn't have wanted to prolong the gratitude by acknowledgment, and immediately switched the subject. "How are your plans for Friday? About you-know-what?"

"All set. I hope she doesn't kill me, though. She's planned that whole day to a T. Might not want my contribution to the day disrupting her careful agenda."

"Actually, I thought the whole point of getting married was that you _did_ want someone else's contribution. Going to take your turn?" Wilson offered the out in case House wanted to escape serious conversation.

"In a minute."

Immediately, the chocolate eyes took on their slightly worried look. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Fine. Leg is just aching a little bit, but it feels good to get back into this. So stop picking up the 24 Hour Caring Hotline. Not every little thing is an emergency call."

Wilson grinned and sat down next to him. The grin faded into his original sappy smile. House began to count silently to himself. _Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one._

"You two really are happy," Wilson stated. "And Cuddy is just glowing. Have you seen her lately?"

"Undoubtedly more than you have. Better be anyway."

"Oh, right. I just wanted to say . . ."

"Here it comes."

"That I'm so glad for both of you and Rachel and the girl on the way." Wilson's smile widened, threatening to split his face. "It really is just like Disney."

House smacked his arm and stood up. "You were never like this before any of your own weddings."

Wilson switched from sappy to wistful. "Because I wasn't sure. But you two . . . you're sure."

House turned away and picked up his ball, but his mind was still on Wilson's statement. Yes, he was sure. Frightening yet comforting. He was sailing out into uncharted waters, taking the relationship step he had sworn he'd never take after seeing his parents' fraud of an example, but he wasn't sailing alone. Whatever the future held, he was sure of Cuddy. He limped up to the head of the lane and threw an absolutely straight ball that took down all pins for a strike. He stood for a moment, not believing it. He almost never got a strike.

"See," Wilson said as he turned around. "You. . ."

"DON'T say it."

"Nothing wrong with letting people know you're happy, House," Wilson said as his friend returned to the seats. "Nothing bad will happen if they know." He saw the briefest shadow pass through the blue eyes before being repressed, and he mentally kicked himself. Actually, House had gone through a childhood where the only possible way to keep and protect something he treasured was to downplay its significance to him. His lifelong practice since had dark roots nourishing it. Wilson quickly changed the subject. No point in letting House remember his father any more than he had to. "Have you talked more about names?"

"We're still debating. I want an original first name. She suggested Blythe for the second name, but families keep score, you know. Can't name after just one side."

"Tell them to wait for the next one," Wilson suggested. "About Blythe, she flies in tomorrow, right?"

"Right. I'm picking her up in Newark in the afternoon."

"I'm seeing Jensen, of course, but I'll help run interference on Thursday if you need."

"I think we're okay. We really are doing a lot better, amazing what a difference the truth makes." Wilson started to smile and got lost halfway in guilt. "Don't apologize again. You already have. It turned out okay."

"It should have been your decision, though. You weren't ready. You could have died in all that." Wilson took a deep breath, trying to shake out of his own bad memories. "What about your mom on Friday?"

"I may take you up on running interference then before the wedding. She's going to be all warm and cuddly, and I'll be wired. Maybe you two Care Bears can spend some time in a group hug talking about unicorns and rainbows."

"And happy endings," Wilson emphasized. "You know, it really is just like a Disney movie." Before House could reach him, he got up quickly and headed for the machine to get his ball.

House, once Wilson's back was turned, let a smile briefly cross his chiseled face, not a sappy smile like Wilson was wearing, but a totally sincere one.

In spite of his father, in spite of everything, yes, he was sure.


	4. Chapter 4

Cuddy's alarm clock sounded at 5:00 a.m., and her eyes snapped open with all the brisk efficiency of a 911 operator answering a call. She stifled the clock and quickly pushed herself up to a sitting position. So much still to do today. Last minute details at the hospital which must be settled either today or tomorrow, last minute details on the wedding, another call to the florist to make sure her previous firm insistence had continued to be effective. Wednesday was going to be a jammed day, and Thursday wasn't looking much better.

And then Friday. . . her attention slid over as if drawn by a magnet to the still form in the bed beside her. He had shifted when the clock first went off but only to put a pillow over his head, almost immediately falling back asleep. She moved the pillow slightly, wanting to see his graying chestnut hair. He was irresistible. She reached out to twirl a few waves around her finger, and he burrowed deeper into the mattress. "Not morning yet," he mumbled. "And 'm off today." The words trailed off as he fell back over the edge into sleep.

Cuddy grinned and considered waking him up, but she didn't have the heart for it. He was correct; he did have today off - so Housian to have that detail emerge immediately out of the sea of sleep in his mind. He was supervising the furniture and piano movers later this morning, then meeting his mother in Newark this afternoon. She relented, deciding to let him sleep a little longer. His sleep schedule was more regulated on meds than it ever had been in his life, and no more were 10:00 a.m. or later arrivals at the hospital routine, but still, he deserved a lazy start to a day now and then.

Speaking of which, it was 5:10. Why was she still lazing in bed herself watching him? So much to do . . .

Cuddy burst from the bed like a rocket - a considerate rocket, but no less of a launch for that - and quickly headed out of the room, taking a moment to close the bedroom door before proceeding to a quick yoga session and a shower. Behind her, House slept on.

It was nearly two hours later that sounds penetrated through the blanket of sleep and insisted on his attention. Grudgingly, he climbed up to consciousness to sort them out. Cuddy, sounding like she was in another production frenzy, and Rachel, sounding like she wanted more attention than she was getting at the moment. House slowly pushed himself up to sit on the side of the bed, rubbing a few times at his leg. His leg never liked getting up in the morning, moving after the hours of relative stillness, but today wasn't any worse than usual. He took his Vicodin, pocketed the prescription-strength anti-inflammatories to go with breakfast, and then stood up and gave the leg a minute to vote before resigning itself to the day. House grabbed his cane and limped to the bedroom door. The sound waves immediately swelled.

"But what if . . . come on, Rachel, don't fight me over juice today. Mama's trying to think."

House diverted into the bathroom, then headed on to the living room to find Cuddy distractedly trying to get Rachel to take a sippy cup, not very successfully since her eyes were everywhere in the room besides on her daughter. She was clearly analyzing the gaps and adjustments in the furniture again. House shook his head.

"We've been over it a hundred times, you know." She jumped and turned to face him, as did Rachel, who stretched her arms out. House captured the sippy cup from Cuddy and quickly got Rachel plugged into it. "Getting her to take it works better if you're looking at her mouth, not at ghost furniture that isn't visible. And I know just where you want every last piece of furniture. Relax."

"I just want everything to be right."

"Trust me, it will be. And if we decide later that we want something changed, we'll just get Wilson to move it. He could use the exercise."

Cuddy half smiled but was still looking around the room. "Maybe I'd better . . ."

"No, you are not taking this morning off. You'd still put in a full day at the hospital no matter when you got there, and I'd wind up dragging you out at 10:00 p.m. Through the main lobby. In front of the nurses and admissions clerk. Do you really want that image to hit the grapevine at PPTH?"

He at least had her full attention now. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," he replied, his eyes alight with mischief as well as determination. Cuddy met them for a moment, then looked away.

"You're right."

"Of course I'm right." He finished giving Rachel the juice, and at that moment, his cell phone rang. He had picked it up when he'd gotten out of bed, and now he pulled it out of his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID, frowned, and answered it. "House. . . what do you mean you can't do it? . . . but this has been arranged for WEEKS . . . that's impossible. I'm not even in town that week; I'll be on my honeymoon. . . no, that is NOT acceptable . . . of course I will be busy with other things on my honeymoon. Use your imagination, if you have any . . . better be a damn good discount." He snapped the phone off, and his annoyed eyes immediately went to the far corner of the living room, the largest blank spot, empty and waiting.

"What's wrong, Greg?" Cuddy was getting worried just watching him. "Something about the piano?"

"Damn." He jumped guiltily, looking back down at Rachel, and Cuddy fought back a laugh. Seeing House watch his language around a child was hilarious. Last year, she wouldn't have believed he would try. But he was, and not even through threats on her part. "That was the piano movers," he continued. "One of their people went in for emergency surgery early this morning - ruptured appendix. Another, would you believe it, is on HIS honeymoon. That leaves them short-staffed for all their appointments until the groom gets back. They can't move it today."

Cuddy shook her head, trying to control her own disappointment to keep him from adding it to his. "There are other piano movers," she suggested tentatively.

"Not with as long experience on grands. These guys are the best." He walked over to the empty corner and stood in it. "They suggested next week, but we'll be otherwise occupied then."

"And of course you want to watch them." House would never let somebody move his piano without hawk-eyed direct supervision. "We could put it off a few days, Greg."

He looked up at her, startled out of his thoughts. "Put it off? You mean the _honeymoon_? You can't be serious."

"I just didn't want you worrying about it and . . ."

"No," he said firmly. "The piano is safe in my apartment right now. We'll move it over when I get back, which will be _after _our honeymoon." She still looked a bit worried, and he gave her a smile. "Besides, the piano won't be jealous because it had to wait. No need. I married it first."

Cuddy's concern dissolved into laughter. "Does that mean you're going to be two-timing me when everything's settled?"

His eyes were laughing now. "Only sometimes. And you're welcome to come watch. So can our daughters."

Daughters. She rested one hand on her swelling belly again, and House came over to join her. They were still locked in an embrace two minutes later when the nanny rang the doorbell.


	5. Chapter 5

House unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside. With only the large furniture remaining, and those pieces they hadn't wanted to keep already sold, it felt like a shell, hollow and empty. He stood for a moment, looking around. So much of his life had been like this place was now. So much pain and solitude wrapped up in it.

The piano gleamed like a star, albeit a black star, in the corner, its lovingly polished lid reflecting back light. House walked over to it, touching it with all the tender yet undeniable passion with which a man approaches his long-time lover. He had been joking earlier that morning to Cuddy, but in a way, he was married to this instrument and had been for years. It alone had known all his moods, from exhilaration to despair. It had comforted him through long sleepless nights. It had infallibly listened but never betrayed his confidence. It had to some extent eased the pain. The intensely private House, the part the hospital rarely saw, was familiar to it.

"I hate having to leave you here alone for a few days," he said softly. "It couldn't be avoided, though. You'll be back with me soon, I promise."

He glanced at his watch - 30 minutes until the movers arrived - and then slid onto the bench. He started out with a few scales and warmup exercises, pushing himself, challenging his fingers, checking their nimbleness. The stiffness of the left wrist following his nine weeks in a cast was long gone. Satisfied, he transitioned smoothly into Cuddy's Serenade. He poured it out, everything he had ever felt for her, perfectly expressed in the music. She had become everything the piano had been over the years, and then she had taken it further. She had loved him back. Incredibly, knowing the worst, she had loved him back. He closed his eyes, and he and the piano sang to her.

It seemed only a minute before the movers' knock sounded at the door, startling him out of the music, dragging him back. He stood and took a few seconds to give a final loving pat of the ebony lid. "Till later," he promised it. Then he grabbed his cane and headed for the door.

(H/C)

Blythe came slowly off the plane after most of the passengers had left. She was using a quad cane, and her steps were slow, not fully trusting her balance and testing it at each step, but her eyes were exuberant. "GREG!" He crossed the waiting area to her, and she wrapped him firmly in a hug, nearly squeezing the breath out of him. "Oh, Greg, I cannot BELIEVE this is finally really happening. I'm so happy for you. You look wonderful! How's Lisa? And Rachel? And the baby?"

She finally had to stop for breath, and he smiled at her. "They're fine, Mom. Everything is great." He nodded toward her quad cane. "So we make a matched set now."

"Yes. I must apologize, Greg, I'd never realized just how much it gets in the way, how much you feel needing it. I'd never really understood. I was even afraid people on the plane would trip over it going down the aisle."

"They let you _keep it_?"

"Of course, dear. Why wouldn't they?"

He shook his head, amazed. "They always take mine away as a potential weapon."

She looked at his slick, wooden cane compared to her medically silver quad with platform. "Maybe this one would be harder to use on someone?"

"Go ahead and finish the thought, Mom. Or maybe I just come across as a jerk."

She smiled at him. "That could be it. But we all love you anyway."

"Trust me, not all of you do." He looked at the cane. "Can you walk down to the luggage claim? If not, you can stay here and wait for me. I'm parked just outside the door over there. Might as well use that handicapped permit for something."

"I could use a walk, if you don't mind going slowly. There wasn't much room on the plane to stretch out."

"I doubt either one of us is going to be breaking the speed limit." They headed toward the luggage carousel, House unobtrusively analyzing her steps. Blythe wasn't actually limping, with no leg injury. It was her general balance and feedback from the floor to her brain that was slightly off, remnants of her severe head injury. It might improve with time, might not, but she seemed to be all right as long as she proceeded carefully, using the quad cane for stability. He was also even more painfully aware than usual of the eyes. Double canes inspired double pity. What a pair they must make. Any moment now . . .

"Could we help you with anything?" Ah yes, here was a grown-up Boy Scout, just begging to do his good deed for the day.

"We're doing fine," House replied tersely.

"Thank you for offering, but we can make it. We'll get a baggage carrier from the airport when we pick up the luggage, but we're fine now." Blythe's honeyed tones smoothed over the roughness of House's reply. The man smiled at her, then turned to walk on. "Greg, he didn't mean anything by it. He really did want to help."

"I know," he said shortly.

She reached out to touch his arm lightly, a silent expression of understanding, and they walked on, finally arriving at the carousel. House eyed the spinning luggage. "Which one?"

"Ones, dear. It's that blue one and then the slightly smaller brown one." He hooked them one at a time from the carousel, then looked from himself to the bags at his feet. He could handle one suitcase in his left hand. They weren't light, but he could probably make it as far as the car if he was a little careful of the extra weight with his ankle. She, on the other hand, had no business carrying something the weight of a suitcase, not with her systemic balance off. He could take two trips, but that would leave one here begging to be stolen. Or he could throw one back on the carousel, take the other, and then return to . . .

While he was plotting a plan of attack, Blythe had walked away a few steps to a uniformed worker. "Excuse me, could you help us with the suitcases?" House scowled, but he couldn't deny the need. But how could she just ask like that, so naturally? She had talked about the inconvenience of the cane, about hating relying on it, but was she totally immune to the pity that he always felt so painfully?

The worker picked up one suitcase in each of his healthy arms and started off with healthy strides in the direction Blythe indicated, adjusting his speed to their snail's crawl. House abruptly thought of Wilson last night at the bowling alley, taking the looks, taking the pity after House had thrown his cane. He felt a surge of gratitude toward his friend.

Finally, they were at the car. Blythe tipped the baggage carrier as House closed the trunk, and then they got in. He turned on the ignition, suddenly wanting to feel steady, unimpeded progress down the road. That was what he loved about the motorcycle. It wasn't handicapped, and it shared that gift willingly with him. Cars weren't as good as the motorcycle, but at least they also didn't limp and didn't point out in either words or looks that he did. Blythe looked over at his chiseled face as he drove out of the airport. "He was a nice young man, Greg. It wasn't pity; it was just being helpful."

"Did you see the way he looked at us when he had to slow down?"

"He was just making sure how much he needed to compensate. That's all." She tilted her head, studying him. "You seem awfully aware of being handicapped today, even more than usual. Is it just having me with you, or is something else wrong?"

A brief vision of stumble-limping into the hotel room Friday night, following Cuddy instead of carrying her, flashed through his mind, and he shoved it firmly back. Jensen's words repeated in his head. _Don't give him a piece of your wedding._ "It's . . . nothing. I apologize. You're right; I am on edge today. This has just been a week with a lot of details, and then I spent all morning supervising the furniture movers."

Her eyes softened in understanding. "And not being able to help yourself."

"Exactly." Watching their whole, strong bodies move furniture that weighed much more than Cuddy did. He exhaled, trying to let it go. "Lisa is at work today, but we're looking forward to dinner out tonight."

"Are you two sure you want me staying at her house tonight and tomorrow night, Greg?"

"Positive. She insisted on it. Her parents arrive tomorrow, and they had to have one of the guest rooms. I think she wants you there to level the sides a little bit."

Blythe laughed. "What are Lisa's parents like?"

"Her father is a success, and as long as his daughter is a success at something, he's proud. You'd better have some successes on your resume for him, though. Her mother is Martha Stewart. She's one reason Lisa has been over the reception, and the cake, and all the other details at the wedding so often. If one little thing was off, her mother would notice. It all has to be _proper._"

"Have they, um, met you?"

House chuckled. "Only talked to me on the phone, but that was under duress. Lisa was sitting right there threatening me, so I was good. I think Lisa's sister had told them plenty, though. If all I have to do is be better than what Lyla described, I should be home free."

"So tell me about the ceremony. A rabbi is doing it, you said? So will it be like _Fiddler on the Roof_?"

"No. No candlelight procession through the village, for instance. Several of the details left out. This isn't the whole shebang card-carrying Jewish wedding, but she wanted a rabbi to do it, and she wanted the glass that we crush. Other than that, it's more relaxed. It will be outside, although there's a backup rain alternate plan. Lots of flowers, assuming the florist gets them right, and Lisa may kill them if not."

Blythe gave a happy sigh. "And then the honeymoon. You're going to New England, right?"

"Yes. Martha's Vineyard. Lisa said she'd had a dream once in her childhood that she had a honeymoon there. We'll fly up after the wedding - a private plane. So no cane checking required, not even for jerks." He grinned at her. "The parents will stay at our house Friday night, and then Wilson will drive you back to Newark Saturday. The nanny will have Rachel for the next week."

"Sounds like everything is perfectly arranged."

"That's Lisa. She'd die of embarrassment if there was a dropped detail, I think."

"I cannot wait to actually see it all, Greg."

"Gave up on me, did you?"

She smiled at him. "Never. I always knew you'd find somebody eventually. I'm looking forward to seeing Lisa wearing Oma's ring, too." She stared out the windshield at the rapidly passing highway. "By the way, dear, I brought a letter. I wasn't sure if you want it or not, but I thought I'd offer."

"A letter from Oma?"

"No, from your other grandmother." Blythe fiddled with the handle of her cane. "I just found it last week when I was sorting through some more of John's things."

He had tensed up, his eyes straight ahead on the road, his hands clenching the wheel. "A letter from Dad's mother to him? Why would I want it?"

"It . . . it's hard to explain without showing it to you, but it implied . . . no, that's not right. It was a letter she wrote to John after his father died. She wanted to 'explain' some things about his father, she said, and why they never got along. I don't know, but reading it just reminded me of the . . . other world that I lived in for so long, not that I think she knew anything, but I think there may have been things she didn't know, and her trying to describe him based on what she did know without knowing what else there was just sounded so familiar, and . . . if I'm right, it might partly explain . . ."

"No." House's voice was absolutely taut, icy.

Blythe looked over at him. "You don't have to read it, Greg. I just thought it might . . ."

"Explain things? How the _hell _could any piece of knowledge about him explain things? There is no excuse. I don't care if his own father was Hitler or Jack the Ripper, that is NO excuse for what he did." His eyes were locked on the road, refusing to look at her. "We each make our own choices, and he made his. If I ever . . . if I ever abused Rachel or the baby, that would be unforgivable, and my background wouldn't be any excuse for me. It wouldn't matter. There isn't an excuse for being a monster instead of a parent, no matter what's happened to you." His breathing was quickening now.

Blythe reached across and put a hand on his arm. "I apologize, Greg. I wasn't . . . trying to excuse him. Don't you think you'd better slow down, dear?" She made the suggestion tentatively, and he realized for the first time that he had sped up to 80. He backed off the accelerator, and the hurtling car slowed. "I . . . it _helped_ me a little to understand possibly how . . . and I thought . . .never mind." She was watching his face, which might have been carved out of stone.

"An explanation wouldn't make any difference," he said after a mile or so. "Not to me."

"Okay. I apologize, dear. I won't ever mention it again." He could feel the concern pouring off of her.

They drove on in silence for a while, and his clenched muscles started to relax. "Greg?" Blythe said tentatively after several miles.

"What is it?"

"I just wanted to say, you don't have to worry about ever . . . doing anything . . . to Rachel or the baby. I know you're incapable of it. You are going to be a _wonderful _father."

It was the first time anybody besides Cuddy, Wilson, or Jensen had told him that, and the affirmation did soothe somewhat the crease of worry in his soul. "Thanks," he said after a moment. He took the exit into Princeton.

After a moment, Blythe realized their destination. "Are we meeting Lisa at the hospital? I thought we were meeting her for dinner tonight after work."

"We are, but without prompting, she'll work late anyway, chasing that last elusive detail." It was true, but that wasn't his real reason for the change of plans. Suddenly, after his mother's attempts at explanations following the morning watching the unhandicapped movers, he needed to see her. He needed to see her _now._

(H/C)

Cuddy was deep in last-minute paperwork on her desk when the office door opened. She looked up, surprised. "Blythe! It's good to see you. Did you have a nice flight?"

Blythe smiled at her warmly. "Very nice. I already told Greg, but I've got to tell you, too, I am SO happy about Friday. It's going to be beautiful. I can't wait."

"I wasn't expecting you two to come by here on your way home," Cuddy said. They couldn't possibly have been home before now. Given her landing time, they'd made excellent time coming straight from Newark.

"Plans change," House said. "I knew you'd be chained to your desk. Go ahead and quit for the evening, Lisa. Slavery is over in this country."

She grinned at his tone, pure sarcastic House, but her eyes sharpened a little bit as she looked at him. He was on edge to put it mildly. His mother? The wedding? The problem with the piano? "I needed to finish these reports," she said, and she saw the brief flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He wasn't playing. For whatever reason, he needed her presence right now. She looked at the clock. 4:50. "It will wait until tomorrow," she said, closing the file. She stood and gathered her purse. "So, we'll go get Rachel. Be deciding where you'd like to eat."

House dropped back a step as Blythe started back across the clinic. Cuddy reached out to touch his back, a rare gesture in the public hospital. "Are you okay?" she asked, sotto voce.

He nodded. "Tell you later. I love you."

"I love you, too," she replied.

Hospital workers stared as Lisa Cuddy, detail-obsessive Dean of Medicine, walked out of the hospital without looking back at only 4:55 p.m.


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm happy for him," Wilson emphasized. "Really. I'm happy for both of them; they deserve this. But a small part of me is . . ." He hesitated, scrambling for a definition.

"Afraid you won't be needed anymore?" Jensen suggested.

The oncologist sighed. "That sounds almost selfish of me."

"No, it just sounds human of you. If you tried to sabotage their happiness to ensure that you _would _be needed, that would be selfish of you. You haven't done that, and you are a good friend. But let's explore your hesitations a little more. How do you define being needed, James?"

Wilson paused to think it through. One thing he'd learned in these sessions over the months was that he actually had been just about as expert in dodging facing his deepest feelings as House had. Where House covered with snark and deflection, Wilson covered with amateur psychoanalysis of others. Analyzing yourself was infinitely harder. "Help me out here," he pleaded.

Jensen smiled at him. "Not nearly as effective as if you realize it yourself. I know it's hard for you to explore your own motives."

Wilson considered. "I guess . . .when there's a problem I need to solve. Or maybe even one I _don't _need to solve." He flinched, remembering his betrayal of House's confidence with Blythe.

"Excellent. I think you're exactly right. You see friendship as solving other people's problems. Possibly that springs from your own childhood where you defined yourself and even let your family define you by your brother's need. Did you have any really close friends of your own growing up?"

Wilson shook his head. "The girls liked me. Almost everybody liked me. But no, not really, not past seeing each other at school. Danny interfered, like you said."

"Think about other people you knew, people you know now. People who have good friends. Is their relationship with those friends based solely on problems?"

"No." Wilson shook his head. "So you're saying that House and I need to build a friendship now that is _not _based on me trying to solve his problems?"

"Actually, I think he's tried for that sort of friendship for a long time. You have been the one sometimes defining your relationship that way, not him. He may have played into it, but only out of fear that you'd leave if he didn't." Wilson considered that. "I think what he has longed for all his life is unconditional friendship as well as unconditional love."

Wilson nodded slowly. "That makes sense. Given his background. So how do I keep the selfish thoughts from creeping in now and then on my side?"

"Why should you?"

Wilson stared at him. "Why should . . . what's the whole point of these sessions if it isn't to replace bad thoughts with good ones?"

Jensen leaned forward a bit. "To acknowledge _all _thoughts. _All _feelings. Not to try to eliminate them. You are as guilty as your friend is sometimes of wanting the world to be black or white. You have trouble dealing with mixed feelings. You also have trouble letting yourself need other people. Problem-solving is a one-way street with you. Admit that; don't try to eliminate it with 'better' feelings or thoughts. You have to admit it and face it to grow." He backed off a bit, changing subject. "What have you done with your friend this week?"

"Well, we've had lunch at the hospital. We went bowling Tuesday night."

"Did you enjoy bowling?"

"Yes. We just . . . had a good time. Talked. Schemed." His lips curved upward slightly.

"Schemed about what?"

"I . . . House is planning something Friday; he's modified Cuddy's regimented agenda without her knowledge. There's something in the day she won't be expecting. But I promised to keep it a secret."

Jensen smiled. "Okay, I won't ask you for specific details, then. But is it a problem you needed to solve?"

"No . . . not really. He's keyed up about it, even on top of the wedding in general, but it's totally his idea. He needs a bit of help pulling it off, but he planned everything on his own. My part is just taking instructions, not problem solving. And trying to keep him from chewing over it mentally between now and Friday, of course. Now that it's all planned, he's worried that she won't like having her perfectly planned day messed with."

"How do _you _think she'll react?"

"She's going to absolutely love it," Wilson said immediately. "No doubt at all."

"I'm looking forward to finding out about it after the fact. Still, I respect you keeping your friend's secret. But the point it, you had a great evening with him that did not involve you needing to solve something. So you can be friends without that basis, and you have been. But it's the problem-solving that you fixate on in remembering things. That isn't all that's there. Trust that, James. Appreciate it. Actually, I think you will be even closer friends in the future because after his marriage, you won't be in the self-cast role of primary problem-solver."

"Really?"

"Really. You don't have to worry about losing your friend. But try to work on appreciating the moments without any problem-solving attached."

Wilson's cell phone chirped at that moment, and he gave Jensen an apologetic look and pulled it out. It was a text from House. "Might need you tomorrow after all," it said. His smile widened, and he couldn't deny the warm surge of being needed. "Text from House. He says he might need me tomorrow after all."

"Tomorrow? Not Friday?"

"Reference to something we were talking about at the bowling alley. I offered to run interference with his mother tomorrow if necessary; he was picking her up at the airport this afternoon. He said he thought they'd be fine, although he might need some help with her on Friday." He glanced at his watch. "Only a couple of hours into her, and he's having second thoughts already, I guess. So am I allowed to help him with his problem?" The last sentence was half-joking, half-serious.

"Of course. Any time he asks you to. Just don't go looking for problems to solve uninvited, and don't expect problems to be the foundation of your friendship." Jensen looked at his watch. "This next week, I want you to make a list of enjoyable occasions in your life that you remember with friends that did not involve you trying to fix something. And no more than half of them can be about Dr. House."

"Odd you'd put that stipulation on it. Non-problem moments ought to be self-limiting. I'd think I've tried to fix him more than anybody."

Jensen shook his head. "You'll be surprised when you start making a list. You _have_ been a good friend to him, James. And you will be an even closer one in the future." He stood up and reached across the desk to shake hands. "I'll see you Friday."

(H/C)

Cuddy closed the bedroom door. House had already collapsed across his side of the bed, fully clothed. During dinner and the rest of the evening, Blythe had been full of happy anticipation, but it was Cuddy more than House who had carried the conversation. Finally, Blythe was asleep in one of the guest rooms. Rachel was long since out like a light in her crib. Finally they were alone.

"Greg, what's wrong?" she asked.

He sighed. "Mom's doing a lot better with therapy, but she still has this inner wish to make things right at times."

She sat down on the bed next to him and started removing his shoes. "You're generalizing. Whatever's bothering you, it isn't general."

"She found a letter from Dad's mother to him, after Dad's father died. And with a whole bunch of projection and extrapolation, she apparently thinks it 'explains' him. She even brought it, so I could have him 'explained,' too."

Cuddy flinched. "I should have gone with you to get her. I could have at least been a buffer."

"You've been a buffer all evening and did great at it. And stop feeling guilty." He closed his eyes to avoid seeing her reflexive guilt, as well as to help the headache he'd had most of the evening. His leg was making itself annoying, too.

"What did you do about the letter?" He felt her hands on his chest now, unbuttoning his shirt. Ridiculous to lie here and be undressed like she did with Rachel, but he simply had no more energy for anything tonight, not even to deflect.

"Told her that I didn't want to see it and that it wouldn't make any difference." His eyes squeezed shut tighter. "There isn't any excuse. No matter what ever happened to him. It's inexcusable to hurt your child like that."

Cuddy worked the shirt off him. "You won't ever hurt our daughters, Greg."

He smiled slightly. "She actually said that herself. That she thought I'd be a good father."

"You will be. I have no doubt at all." She unzipped his pants, and he lifted his hips slightly to allow her to slide them off. Even that small movement was an effort. He felt her hands after a moment, feeling along his ankle and then up through his thigh. "It's a little bit swollen tonight. Probably all the walking around the airport."

"She asked a worker to help with the luggage," he said abruptly. "Just walked up and _asked,_ like it was nothing. Like it didn't bother her at all that she couldn't . . . that I couldn't . . ."

Cuddy's hands were massaging his leg. It felt wonderful. "You did a good job directing the furniture," she said, characteristically coming closer to one of the roots of his mood tonight. "It's all perfect."

"Directing it," he scowled, belittling himself and the word in the same breath.

"That's a valid job, Greg. How often have you told me that I'm not working as a real doctor? But I keep the hospital running smoothly. Those movers would have made a mess of everything without instructions and organization."

He felt her hands pull away suddenly and the bed creak as she stood. His eyes opened in a sudden and pathetic surge of panic. "Don't go."

She was halfway to the door, but she came back. "I'm only going to get a glass of water. I'll be right back. I'm not going to leave you, Greg, ever, because _you _are the one I want to be with. Not furniture movers, not Wilson, not anybody else." She bent over to kiss him. "Back in a minute."

His eyes fell shut again, but his ears were intent on her progress. He heard her footfalls leaving down the hall, then heard them coming back. She sat down on the bed next to him again, and he heard the pill bottles rattle. "Here. You didn't even take your nighttime dose of meds yet."

House pushed himself up a bit and opened his eyes, accepting the glass of water and the handful of pills. The sleeping pill and the nighttime Vicodin. In fact, there was an extra on the Vicodin. He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Feeding the addict?"

"Treating a legitimate pain problem. You've been taking your meds exactly as directed for months, and tonight, your leg is hurting you more, and I'm pretty sure you've got a headache, too." He looked down, silence giving consent, and gulped down the pills.

Cuddy took the glass back. Usually, he gulped down the pills dry as soon as he got into bed, but tonight, he had seemed either too tired to go to the effort of getting them . . . or was so wrapped up in feeling pain and disability at the moment that he felt it wouldn't be right to alleviate them as much as he could. Just from what she had pieced together, between the change of plans on his beloved piano, then him watching the movers, picking up Blythe at the airport (where she had simply asked without self-consciousness for help), and then hearing about the letter she'd brought that "explained" his father, he had had a hell of a day. He had laid back down, closing his eyes again - he definitely had a headache; she was sure even though he hadn't mentioned it. She pushed lightly at his shoulder. "Roll over on your left side, Greg." He complied, and she began working on his shoulders, kneading the ropes of tension out. He gave a low hum of approval.

"Can I hire you for life?"

"I take pretty steep wages. You've got to let me stay with you forever. Deal?"

Why did she want that? He could feel the sleeping pill and the extra Vicodin starting to work on him, tendrils of fog creeping through his brain. Cuddy's hands moved up to massage his temples lightly. "Those are the only wages I want, Greg. Don't leave me as an unpaid masseuse. Do we have a deal?"

His lips curved upward slightly. "Deal," he replied. Sleep was opening up like a whirlpool beneath him, pulling him down, and he finally let go of the hard day and followed the current into rest. His last conscious thought was of her almost magical, pain-relieving, _beautiful_ hands.

Cuddy kept working massaging his temples until long after she was sure he was totally out. Reluctantly, she finally let go and stood up, rolling him gently onto his back. She tucked an extra pillow under his knee and another under his ankle, then pulled the covers up over him. She took off her own clothes, hesitating finally at the ring. Oma's ring, holding it up to the lamp, catching the light, admiring it. Tonight, she left it on. Totally naked except for the ring, she rolled into bed beside him and snuggled down against his side. "Good night, Greg," she said softly, and she turned out the lamp.

Her last conscious thought was anticipation for the wedding the day after tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

Short Thursday update. Wedding minus one day! (That's a fanfiction day, not a literal day.)

(H/C)

Cuddy was up early Thursday as usual to do her morning yoga, which was definitely starting to feel like it involved two participants in her workout. She rested both hands on her slowly swelling bulge, lost in happiness. It was going _so_ well this time. With this child, there had been no problems whatsoever. She gave a silent prayer that her pregnancy would stay this uneventful right through the end.

Blythe came into the kitchen just as Cuddy was planning what to have for breakfast. "Good morning, Lisa," she said brightly, reaching for the coffee pot.

"Good morning, Blythe. Did you sleep well?"

"Like a rock. Is Greg still asleep?"

"Yes, I'm letting him sleep in. Him and Rachel both, so keep it down. Greg and I both have to work today, Blythe, nailing down last-minute details at the hospital, but my parents should be arriving by car late this afternoon. Wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner tonight. You'll be at loose ends for today, I'm afraid, but maybe you can find a mall or something." It occurred to Cuddy right after she said it that Blythe might have difficulty with too much walking at a mall, but too late to pull the words back. Blythe smiled at her.

"It's okay, dear. I'm just slower than I used to be, no real difference. Except this, which is a nuisance at times." She indicated the quad cane. Cuddy was startled at her nonchalant acceptance and abruptly remembered House's report of how she just asked for help at the airport yesterday. Startling contrast from House's ever-present sensitivity about his leg, but she supposed if there was one thing Blythe had practice at in life, it was ignoring difficulties and simply proceeding like they didn't exist. "I had thought I might come down to the hospital and have lunch with Greg. Also, do you mind if I spend some time with Rachel today?" Blythe continued.

"Go ahead, but the nanny will be taking care of her. You aren't up to it physically, you know." Well, if Blythe was going to just plain accept limitations, no point in beating around the bush.

"I know." Blythe moved past her, eying the makings of breakfast. "Could I help, dear? I'm sure Rachel will be up soon, even if Greg isn't."

Right on cue, Rachel started waking up, and her morning sounds that were not-quite-yet cries were heard through the monitor, which Cuddy had on the kitchen counter. She had firmly closed the bedroom door on her way out, as well as the door to the nursery, hoping to buy House some extra sleep. "Thank you," Cuddy said, abandoning breakfast to Blythe and starting for the door. "Oh, one more thing, Blythe." She turned back at the kitchen doorway and waited until she was sure Blythe was paying full attention. "If you bring up John House or refer to him at all at any time during the next two days, even by noting his absence, you will forfeit all visitation rights with your grandkids. John was not invited to our wedding, and Greg doesn't need his presence there." Her tone was absolutely firm, her "I'm in charge" tone that made lawyers and insurance agents yield ground.

Blythe flinched. "I won't," she promised. "I really didn't mean to upset Greg yesterday."

Rachel was starting to gain volume, and Cuddy quickly turned to leave, shaking her head slightly as she headed down the hall. Blythe had made a lot of progress, but her naivety at times still amazed Cuddy. How on earth could anybody knowing the facts not predict that House would be upset by the suggestion that he read a letter 'explaining' his father, let alone read it right before his own wedding? At least House apparently had shot her down immediately instead of dodging, no doubt thanks to Jensen's work over the last several months. Still, he hadn't been himself the whole rest of the evening, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, and he'd seemed utterly drained last night. "You need to have a few therapy sessions on timing, Blythe," she muttered, turning into the nursery. She switched off the monitor and picked up her daughter.

She was just finishing dressing Rachel when House limped into the nursery. He had grabbed an old set of sweat pants and a rock T-shirt, and with his hair still standing on end, he looked adorably rumpled. "Good morning," she said. "Hope Rachel and I didn't wake you. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," he replied, giving her the honor of not dodging the question. Rachel had immediately started doing flip-flops on the dressing table, trying to reach him, and he came over to hold her still while Cuddy finished. "I . . . apologize for leaving you mostly to handle her last night. I was just . . ."

"Never mind. Turnabout's fair play. You can deal with my parents tonight." She finished with Rachel and picked her up.

"Are we sure we don't want to elope?" House suggested, the old mischievous spark lighting up his blue eyes. His arms wrapped around both of them.

"Mmm. It's tempting, but we've already paid for those flowers. I have to stick around to make sure the florist actually does it right. But please be on your best behavior tonight with my parents, okay?"

"Of course. I'll wait to show them what I'm really like until tomorrow."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. He wasn't serious, merely jerking her chain, but she was glad to see him more like himself this morning. She had been a bit worried about him last night. "By the way, just to warn you, your mother is planning to drop by the hospital for lunch. I've got a lunch scheduled with a donor and his wife, so I can't be backup. Maybe you ought to get Wilson to join you."

"I will." He shook his head. "Ridiculous to need someone to ride shotgun for lunch with your parents. Did I ever tell you about Cameron?"

"What about her?"

"Remember that time my parents were coming through briefly a couple of years ago on their way to Europe?" Cuddy cringed. She definitely remembered that, as did Wilson. Their meddling, as well as their oblivious assumption of House's motives for avoiding his parents, had been inexcusable. "Cameron was all curiosity and was determined to finagle her way into a dinner invitation. In fact, she's the one who blew my cover story to Wilson in the first place. Then Mom and Dad both showed up right as that kid was dying of radiation poisoning, and they refused to let me totally back out of dinner. Insisted on at least a sandwich in the cafeteria. I was just standing up from my desk to walk down there with them when Cameron walked right into the middle of the not-so-happy reunion, pulled out her mental notebook to start analyzing my childhood, and introduced herself. They actually invited her to the cafeteria with us. I was giving her every unspoken signal in the book to back off and leave us alone, bad enough just talking to them . . . to _him_ without her sitting there trying to figure out what makes me tick. That one time, at least, she took the hint and backed off. I even thanked her for it later that night."

Cuddy understood the unspoken compliment to herself. He had _wanted _her along, granted several years later and with a lot of water under the bridge, but he had seen her as a help instead of one more difficulty. Although to give Cameron credit, she had matured a good bit since then. "Thank you for coming to me last night," she said. "I really do think you dealt with everything yesterday very well, all things considered. But I have a suggestion. Let's not talk about your father the next few days. Unless you need to, of course. But he doesn't belong in our wedding - or on our honeymoon."

House nodded. "Kick him in the virtual testicles," he said softly.

"What?"

"Something Jensen said. He was trying to get me mad." He shook off the memories. "Okay, we are officially changing subjects through the duration of the honeymoon." He reached out to tickle Rachel under the chin. "Come on, let's go rustle up breakfast."

Cuddy was smiling as they headed down the hall, but part of her was already tightening up in anticipation of her own parents' arrival this evening.


	8. Chapter 8

I don't remember Cuddy's parents ever being given names in the TV show to this point, or if so, I missed it. Sorry if this is off. Her sister was eventually named, but I had already named her in my writings in progress before that.

It is Thursday. One day till the wedding . . .

(H/C)

Thursday wound up being more complicated than House had planned, due to a challenging patient. This at least kept his attention focused and his nerves at bay. The closer to tomorrow - and his disruption of Cuddy's so-carefully-planned wedding - the more uncertain he was. He wasn't doubting the marriage or Cuddy, but he still wasn't sure how his contribution was going to go over. Initially, it had seemed like a great idea. The closer he got to execution, the more he questioned it. His lips twisted slightly on the thought. Execution. It sounded like the end of a prison sentence. Maybe by tomorrow night, she really would be ready to kill him, at least figuratively.

So he threw himself into the case. His fierce impulsion on this one drew understanding looks all around the table in the conference room, which annoyed him. How dare they all sit there and just think he was typical and possibly even cute for merely worrying about his wedding. None of them had a clue what he was actually worrying about. "Wipe the dopey smiles off your faces and give me some ideas worth having," he snapped. "We need to finish up this case by tonight since I'm gone a week starting tomorrow, so there's a time limit here. Come on, _ideas!" _

The team exchanged looks all around, and then Kutner, always trying to please, made a tentative suggestion. House shot him down instantly, but at least his youngest doctor was trying. The others seemed to be mired in pre-wedding haze. House let sarcasm slice across his tone. "Okay, points to Kutner for at least _trying_ to do his job. If any of the rest of you still _want _jobs to have after I get back, I suggest you start actually _doing _them."

He had turned to face the whiteboard again, working on the symptoms himself at full speed even while berating his team, and he heard the door open behind him. Turning back, he found Blythe standing there uncertainly. She had clearly heard his previous comment. Damn it, he'd forgotten Cuddy's warning about lunch. "Hi, Mom," he said, and every member of the team, even Foreman, immediately pivoted away from the whiteboard to focus on Blythe with interest. "IDEAS," he snapped. "When I come back in here in two minutes, I want a fresh, polished, _logical _idea from everybody, and anybody without one is fired." He stepped across to take Blythe's arm and shepherd her toward his adjoining office. Behind him, he could feel the team finally snap to work.

Blythe waited until the door was shut and they had retreated to his desk. "Take it easy, Greg," she urged. "Tomorrow is a _good _thing, and I just know it's going to be perfect." She gave a happy sigh, already seeing the perfect ceremony in her mind. "Do you have time for lunch today?"

"I really don't, I'm afraid. Challenging case, and we need to get it solved before tonight."

She looked at him reproachfully. "You have to eat sometime, Greg."

House pulled out his cell phone, sending a quick text - _911. H. _- to Wilson. "Tell you what. Why don't we see if Wilson is busy at the moment. Maybe he could have a nice lunch with you, and you two could bring back a sandwich for when I get a chance. I really do need to work on this case right now."

Wilson came at a jog-trot around the corner and entered the office, with response time that would have impressed the police. "Morning, Blythe!"

"Oh, James, good morning! It's so good to see you." Blythe hugged him, and after they parted, Wilson looked at House.

"Did you need me?"

"Yes," House said. "I'm tied up with an interesting patient at the moment, and Mom here was looking for somebody to have lunch with. I really can't afford the time out of the differential right now, especially since I'm leaving early tonight. Would you be willing to fill in?"

"It would be my pleasure," Wilson said, tucking Blythe's arm under his own with a gentlemanly flourish while being careful not to pull her off balance. "Come on, Blythe. I probably know more of the actual wedding details than he does, because Cuddy's bounced them off me." Wilson also knew the one big detail that Cuddy didn't, but House was pretty sure he could trust him on that. After the near-disastrous consequences back in February, hell would freeze over before Wilson shared an important secret of his with Blythe again. Wilson shot him a look right then that affirmed exactly that.

Blythe hesitated, wanting to see her son but also salivating over the bait of more wedding details. "Well, all right, Greg. I can see you're busy. But we are going to bring you back a sandwich."

"Thanks, Mom." He walked across to hug her lightly, something he knew she would appreciate even if he didn't. "I'll be spending all kinds of time with you at the rehearsal tonight, but I really need to get this case wrapped up first." He gave Wilson a look of pure gratitude as he turned back toward the conference room. His mother and Wilson headed slowly out of the office while House himself rejoined his team.

"Okay," he said briskly as he opened the door. "Who wants to keep your job?"

A chorus answered him.

"Polymyositis." "Generalized allergic reaction." "Mixed connective tissue disease." "Scleroderma."

"Now _that's _more like it. You're probably wrong, but at least you're trying." House picked up the marker and resumed writing on the whiteboard.

(H/C)

It was about two hours later that he entered Cuddy's office. House needed her to sign off on a procedure, but she wasn't back from her own appointment with the donor and his wife yet. He glanced at his watch - any minute - and settled down behind her desk to wait.

The desk, the old desk from medical school that he had had restored for her, was littered with the usual files and budget report, but a few notes on top of all caught his attention. He pulled the top one over, smiling. It was clearly part of a lengthy to-do list.

_Call florist again. _

_Pack suitcases tonight. _

_Give nanny written permission for medical treatment of R if needed._

_Double check all emergency numbers written down._

_Meet parents._

_Check new sheets in guest room. _

_Check music tonight. _

_Check weather again - main site? Alt? _

_Verify appointment with hairdresser tomorrow. _

_File quarterly budget reports before leaving. _

_Verify instructions with secretary for absence._

_Double check plane and pilot ready tomorrow. _

_Check enough meds._

House had been smiling to himself even more as he ran through the obsessive list, but his smile froze and then shattered on the last one. _Check enough meds._ Cuddy herself was only on prenatal vitamins. No, he was the one who was on no less than _four_ maintenance medicines at the moment, and there were multiple times lately when even more - antibiotics, antispasmodics, etc. - had been added to those. He suddenly had a premonition of the future, of himself in a hospital bed in their home - Cuddy's guilt complex would never allow her to place him in a nursing home - and of her to-do list including a whole string of chores concerning his care daily, including to check enough meds, and no doubt more than four. He was doing pretty well lately, but he knew that his lifespan was probably shorter than average, and his functional health was quite likely more short-lived than that. It was an extremely good bet that she would wind up eventually taking care of him.

Did she really know what she was getting into?

"Greg?" He jumped, realizing that Cuddy was right there beside him. He hadn't even heard her come in. "What's up? Did you need something?"

He quickly reached for the file. "I needed you to sign off on a procedure."

She glanced quickly at the chart, but her eyes wandered back to him. "What were you thinking about there? I had to call you four times before you snapped out of it."

"Nothing." He stood up, reaching for the file, and she quickly signed. "This patient is turning challenging, but I'll be out of here on time even if I have to leave the kids with it. I won't leave you stuck with everything alone tonight."

Did she imagine the ever-so-slight emphasis on tonight? She hesitated, trying to meet his eyes. "What's wrong, Greg?"

"Nothing," he repeated, looking away. "I'll see you at 4:30 when we leave to meet your parents."

"Greg." She captured his arm as he turned to leave. "Talk to me. What were you thinking about?"

"The future," he said after a moment.

"But that's _good._"

"Right. It's going to be great. I've got to get back to my patient. See you in a few hours." He limped on out of the office, and she stared after him, puzzled. Why should thinking about the future put that uncertainty back in his eyes? Was he worrying about being a father again?

She sat down at her desk and suddenly noted her to-do list, with the top note moved slightly. He must have been reading it while he waited for her. She read it again herself and froze on the last entry, abruptly tying it with thoughts of the future. Oh, damn. Trust him to pull that one item off the list out of context. She quickly gathered all three pages of the list, although he had apparently only moved the top one, and she hurried out the door with quick, business-like strides. She had recently given up heels for the duration at House's and the OB/GYN's insistence, but she could still produce a business-like click, click, click in flats. She saw him entering the elevator in front of her, and she put on a final burst of speed, just barely sliding between the closing doors. He jumped.

Cuddy gave one quick glance around to ensure that they were alone, then shoved the notes in front of him. "Greg, if you're going to be reading my notes to myself, read _all_ of them, okay?" She indicated the one he had read. "First page." It retreated to the back of the pile and was replaced by a similar listing of last-minute details. "Second page." That one also shuffled to the back in turn, revealing the last one. "Third and final and _most important _page."

House stared down at it, where in writing three times the size of that on the other pages, she had written, "Above all, remember how happy you are. With or without every detail in place, everything is going to be wonderful."

He read it over three times, then looked up. "You're sure you're happy?"

As many times as she had tried to erase the self-doubt in those stunning blue eyes, it could still return. "Greg, I have _never _been happier in my life than I am when I think about marrying you. I can't wait for the future." She closed the gap, using her body to try to add weight to her arguments, and she felt him responding.

They were still locked in the kiss when the elevator door dinged open. Neither of them noticed it, but they did notice Foreman pointedly clearing his throat. Cuddy jumped back, suddenly self-conscious, but House didn't totally let go of her. His annoyed stare met sheepish looks from his entire team. "Yes?" he said.

"We, um, have a new idea," Kutner started.

"Great! I was just getting permission for the procedure."

"Can we assume that the answer was yes?" Taub said, deadpan.

"Absolutely. Taub and Thirteen, go start the procedure. Foreman and Kutner, back to the drawing board." He turned back to Cuddy, finally completely releasing her. "See you in a little while."

(H/C)

The case wasn't solved by the time they had to leave, and Cuddy was slightly worried that he wouldn't want to deal with her parents and rehearsal and all tonight, skipping it in favor of working late. However, he showed up exactly on time at her office. "Expecting somebody else?" he said at her slight look of surprise.

"I really was thinking you might just stay and work the case."

He shook his head. "I won't promise to avoid the cell phone totally tonight, but you bailed me out last night with Mom. My turn now. I'll be with you all the way, and if the team can't handle the front lines, too bad. I've got more important things to do." She smiled at him. Her own nerves were accelerating now, with not butterflies but squabbling blue jays in her stomach. Her parents had never met House, although her mother had talked with him about the desk. What would her father, the driven success, think?

"Relax," House said as they pulled into her driveway. "I promise, I'll be on my best behavior. Trust me."

Cuddy sat still for a moment, eying her parents' car. They had been early, of course. "This is ridiculous. It's not like they're going to be able to stop me."

"Why should they want to? They're already expecting to be disappointed. All I have to do is be better than Lyla said, and they'll be impressed. That's easy." He smiled at her, then opened the car door. "Trust me," he repeated.

Blythe and Cuddy's parents were chatting amiably in the living room when House and Cuddy entered, but all eyes immediately snapped to the door, and conversation ceased. "Mom, Dad, this is Greg," Cuddy said. "Greg, Robert and Susan Cuddy."

Robert Cuddy was the first to reach them. He held out a hand, and House took it, even though he hated handshakes. He even more hated Handshaking as Weighing Up Your Opponent 101, which course Robert obviously had aced. His grip was bone-crushing. House stood perfectly straight and forced himself not to flinch. Susan's grip was a bit softer but still very firm for a woman. Yes, these two were strong characters, all right. They eyed him up and down after shaking hands, and House forced himself under their fixed gaze not to stand at attention, as he had been forced to when being lectured on his shortcomings by his father.

His father . . . House wrenched his thoughts away from him and back to the room. Cuddy was speaking. "Did you all have a nice trip?"

"Not too bad, but they need to work on the roads," Robert said.

"We were just meeting your mother," Susan said to House. "She's such a charming woman."

House looked over at his mother and was surprised to see a gleam of amusement in her eyes. He limped over to her and sat down next to her on the couch. "So, if she told you everything, there's not much left for me to say then. Right?" Blythe gave his arm a gentle squeeze, reassurance that she hadn't actually told them everything. He'd hadn't been too worried about that anyway; she knew that his past was only to be mentioned in absolute privacy. That was one of their recently applied rules.

"Oh, I'm sure she didn't tell us everything," Susan said, a polite disclaimer that sounded a bit regretful. House remembered her well from their phone conversations about Cuddy's desk. She was curious, but his first impression with her beat Lyla's report. He sensed that she would be more on his side than Robert would.

"So tell me again what kind of doctor you are," Robert started, sitting down again. The party arranged themselves around the living room, and House saw Cuddy surreptitiously glance at her watch. They had a few minutes to spare before they needed to leave for the rehearsal and dinner.

"I'm a diagnostician," House said.

"Never heard of them."

"I'm the only one," House replied. "It's sort of a court of last resort, the cases that other specialists haven't solved."

"Greg is very highly thought of in the medical world," Cuddy said, trotting out the resume of success details that would impress her father. "His book is still selling well even after years in publication, and PPTH gets in more designated donations for the Department of Diagnostic Medicine than for any other. He also gets invitations all the time to speak at conferences." She didn't add that he usually turned them down flat.

"That sounds . . . are you all right, Greg?" Robert's summary of professional approval broke off as he stared at his future son-in-law. House had his head tilted slightly, his eyes focused sharply on something in the room that none of them could see.

"Greg?" Blythe reached over to poke him.

House erupted off the couch with startling speed for a man with a cane. "Speaking at conferences . . . said he'd never lived or vacationed anywhere else . . . absolute IDIOT!" He was already pulling out his cell phone as he retreated down the hall.

Robert and Susan were both left staring after him. "He's okay," Cuddy tried to explain. "He . . . that's how he solves cases. He just solved one. He'll be back with us in a minute."

Robert looked back at her. "That's not how most doctors do it."

"Greg is an absolute medical genius. Most doctors _wish_ they could make those jumps of reasoning." Robert still looked dubious.

House reappeared down the hall, putting his cell phone away, satisfaction oozing from every pore. "So, nice to sit here chatting and getting to know everybody, but we'd better hit the road. Don't want to be late."

Still in slightly stunned silence, they filed out to the cars. House dropped back to walk alongside Cuddy. "Got it solved?" she asked unnecessarily.

"Yes, but that wasn't what I was going to say. Remember how happy you are. With or without every detail in place, everything is going to be wonderful."

Cuddy tried to force herself to relax. "Thank you," she said softly. Rachel, in her arms, gave a happy chortle and reached out for House, and Cuddy's forced smile melted into a real one. "Let's go." They hurried to join the others in the Cuddys' Lincoln Town Car and head for the dinner and rehearsal.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a pleasant summer evening on the large lawn next to the rented community center. Things would have been perfectly peaceful were it not for the frenetic activity. Cuddy whirled around the site like a personal reverse tornado, leaving a path of organization instead of destruction. She was making verbal notes to herself. "Okay, the flowers will be set up first thing tomorrow. Got to check the weather forecast again tonight, although probably outside is good."

"Relax," Wilson advised, coming up behind her. The oncologist had just arrived. "The forecast for tomorrow is sunny and clear, and I'm sure you've checked the forecast 50 times this week. It hasn't changed in the last hour." He sidled a bit closer to her. "How did the meeting of the in-laws go?" Cuddy abruptly started to laugh softly, tension falling off her like water. "That good, huh?" Wilson asked.

"He was trying. He _really _was trying. But then he had an epiphany right in the middle of the introductory conversation."

Wilson chuckled. "Well, I have bad news. I don't think you're ever going to be able to pass him off to anybody as just normal. The sooner your parents realize it, the better."

"I wouldn't want him normal." She looked around, already retreating mentally to the ceremony tomorrow. "There will be a lot more chairs, of course; we only brought out a few tonight. Sound system tomorrow. The flowers are being set up first thing in the morning. Can't leave them out tonight; somebody would steal them. I've got an appointment at the hairdresser, but I need to be sure to get back here in time to make a final inspection of things and take emergency measures as needed." The wedding itself was at 1:00.

"Why don't you call them tonight and ask them to be sure to be here as soon as it's daylight? That way, you'll have time to inspect it before going to get your hair done, and more time for emergency repairs if needed. That will be better than trying to inspect things closer to the time for the wedding. You'll be busy getting dressed, anyway; there's enough to worry about at the last minute. Approve the setup earlier, and then you'll have that out of the way."

"Good idea. You're good at this, Wilson."

"Unfortunately, I've had a lot of practice." Wilson looked up as Susan approached them.

"Mom, this is Dr. James Wilson, Greg's best man. My mother, Susan Cuddy."

They made polite noises and shook hands, and then Susan said, "You know, Lisa, I must admit, I'm surprised to see how well Greg interacts with Rachel." They all looked across to where House, holding Rachel, was in deep conversation with the rabbi.

Wilson and Cuddy were both startled into silence. Wilson was the first one to recover. Of all the things to criticize about House, his interaction with Rachel wasn't one of them. "House is fantastic with kids. He's going to be a great dad."

"Lyla said . . . well, never mind."

"No, Mom, please go on." Cuddy's hackles were raising. "What did Lyla say?"

"That he never did anything with her, wouldn't even get up to get her when she was crying. That you had to be the one to do absolutely everything."

Cuddy ground her teeth together. "Mom, the afternoon that gave her that impression was one day after Greg had severely sprained his ankle and torn a ligament. He wasn't supposed to be up and on it." That extremely compressed version was her report of the afternoon she threw Lyla out, and thank goodness that even Lyla had not known everything that was actually going on with House at that confrontation. Cuddy's fists clenched at her sides, and she mentally punched her sister.

"He really did hurt himself," Wilson put in. "He was on crutches for weeks, and he's still doing PT. He wouldn't have been steady enough on his feet to take care of Rachel right then."

Susan frowned in thought, still watching House. Actually, Lyla's report of him had included faking and exaggerating injuries just to milk attention from Cuddy. To hear her, Lisa was settling down with a lazy, unreliable eccentric who was one step from a hobo. Susan had already seen eccentricity herself, watching her future son-in-law blank out and then dash off right in the middle of a conversation, but he certainly did seem attentive to Rachel.

"And he is a world-renowned doctor," Cuddy continued. "Look him up on the internet. His reputation professionally is unparalleled."

Susan still looked assessing. "I must admit, wanting your old desk was a delightfully romantic touch. Your father and I just want what's best for you, Lisa. You know that."

As long as it also looks right, Cuddy added mentally. "This _is_ what's best for me. I have no doubts about Greg, and whatever Lyla told you was exaggerations if not outright lies."

Wilson decided it was time to step in and change the subject. "So, what about Rachel tomorrow? Is the nanny dealing with her?"

"Most of the time, yes. Greg and I will both have too much else to do. I wish she were walking and a little older, so she could walk down the aisle as a flower girl."

"Maybe a wagon?" Susan suggested.

"Actually, Greg said he wanted her up front. The nanny will be right on the first row, though, so she can be passed off when we need to, when we'll need to be free for the exchanging of rings and the glass and such."

Across the lawn, House was talking to the rabbi. "You understand what's actually going to happen tomorrow at the ceremony?"

"Yes, and I think it's a wonderful idea."

"I just hope she does." House looked back across at Cuddy, his stomach knotting up again. "We'd better get this show on the road."

The rabbi stepped out to the front, where the main ceremony would be tomorrow, and raised his voice. "Okay, everybody. Get in place, please. All the bridesmaids, anybody with a part, come up here, and we'll talk through it."

House backed away a little, and Wilson came up beside him. "Holding up okay?" Wilson asked, sotto voce.

"Do I really want to do this?" House was too worked up to pretend in front of his best friend right now.

"Marry Cuddy? Bit late to question that."

House smacked him lightly, and Rachel took the example and did so herself vigorously with both hands. "No, you moron, that's not what I was talking about." The snark let off a small bit of the tension, though.

Wilson gently pushed Rachel's hands away. "Relax," he advised. "It's going to be great. Did you tell the rabbi?"

"Yes. He liked the idea."

"She was talking about a last-minute inspection of setup after her hair appointment, but I think I convinced her to check things earlier."

House let out a deep breath. "Thanks. Remember, tomorrow, she doesn't see the site - the _completed _site - until right before she enters and comes down the aisle."

"I'll do my best. Might be a good idea to enlist Cameron or somebody to stall her in the dressing room, though."

House hated sharing his secret, wanting to spring it as a surprise, and had only told the bare minimum required logistically. Still, Wilson had a point. He might act like part woman, but he wouldn't be in the dressing room with Cuddy. "Might be a good idea," he admitted reluctantly. "You tell her, though. I don't want to see her expression. In fact, tell her tomorrow. I don't want to see her myself after she knows." Cameron, of course, would love it and would get that starry-eyed, mushy look in her eyes that women specialized in.

"Hello? Are you two joining us?" Cuddy was calling them, and House jumped. They moved up to join the rest of the group.

The complete group went through a discussion of the order and events tomorrow, then walked through it. House felt a tightness in his chest watching Cuddy and her father come down the aisle. Even in everyday clothes, she was a vision of beauty. Not that he would ever say that to anyone, of course. He suddenly noticed that Susan, sitting near the front, was watching him watch her daughter, her head tilted. He thought he was doing okay with Susan, at least. Damn Lyla. His thoughts immediately returned to Cuddy as she finished her walk, and Robert gave her hand to House with a firm look as if he wanted to make sure House truly appreciated the weight of this gift.

Cuddy nudged him. He had been watching her father and lost track, and he realized that they were now pretending to exchange rings. Quickly he caught up and kept his firm attention on things from that point.

Cuddy insisted on a complete second walk-through, but everything went smoothly. Finally, the crowd began to disperse and head for the restaurant where the banquet room was reserved for the rehearsal dinner. Blythe came up to House and Cuddy as they headed for the car. "This is going to be SO perfect, dears. It's beautiful. I can just imagine it all tomorrow."

Cuddy smiled at her. "I just hope it goes exactly like that tomorrow, everything like it should be."

House froze, doubts kicking up again. His stomach clenched. How disappointed would she be if she knew that it was not going to go like that tomorrow?

"Greg?" Cuddy and Blythe had reached the car and abruptly realized he had stopped. "Going to join us?"

He jolted himself out of his thoughts and limped on to join them, suddenly very aware of his lopsided stride. "Just thinking. Okay, let's go eat." He climbed in after them, and they joined the convoy of vehicles heading for the restaurant.


	10. Chapter 10

We'll finish off Thursday today. Next up . . . drum roll . . . FRIDAY!

(H/C)

Once at the restaurant, there were a few moments while everyone ordered, and then they were left sipping their drinks and talking around the long table. It was precisely the kind of social conversation that House hated under the best of circumstances, and tonight, with him especially on edge for reasons nobody except Wilson knew, plus the new in-laws there watching him like a hawk, hardly qualified as the best of circumstances. He took a few sips of wine, wishing suddenly that it was a double scotch. But Cuddy was next to him. She had bailed him out last night. He owed her this. He sat between Cuddy and his mother and tried to stay focused and be pleasant.

The question he had dreaded all night came fairly early. Robert, on the other side of the table with Cuddy at the head, leaned across slightly to face House. "So, Greg, tell us about your father."

The knot in his stomach immediately twisted three times tighter. He forced himself to keep a level tone. "He was in the Marines. He died almost a year ago."

Susan immediately looked sympathetic, splitting her glance between him and Blythe. "I'm so sorry. You both must still feel his loss so much."

House was starting to feel literally nauseous. Cuddy smoothly stepped into the conversation, and he felt her hand finding his under the table. "Greg lived in the most interesting places when he was growing up because they kept moving around. All over the world. Japan, Egypt. He speaks I don't know how many languages."

"Really?" Robert credited him with a few extra points. He admired that accomplishment. "Do you still remember them, though?"

House actually looked puzzled, slightly distracted from his tension. "Of course. How can you forget a language?" Wilson and Cuddy shared a look.

"Well, dear, I don't remember half of what I picked up," Blythe put in. "Most people don't, actually, unless they keep in practice. But Greg, he's like a sponge. He just soaked it up, everywhere we lived. He'd be absolutely fluent in just a few months, and he never seemed to forget any of it."

"He reads medical journals in other languages, even," Wilson offered.

House shrugged. "It would be arrogant of us to assume that all medical discoveries worthwhile come only to speakers of English." He was mildly uncomfortable with this obvious point scoring, especially when he didn't consider soaking up languages an accomplishment - he couldn't imagine how somebody could _not_ quickly pick up the language of their surroundings. And forget it? Did people really have to _work_ to keep from forgetting things they'd learned? But at least this was better than talking about his father. If Robert was impressed at languages, House would humor him for Cuddy's sake. "It's helped in several cases, actually. Some similar case in Portugal a few years ago might be extremely relevant to a current patient of mine."

"So you keep a file of case studies in other languages just on the off chance that it might come in useful?"

"Not an actual written one, but yes. There are some rare diseases in the world, but usually at least _one _other person somewhere at some point has had it."

Susan was looking puzzled. "What do you mean, not a written one? What other kinds of files are there? Is it on computer?"

"No, just mentally. If I read an article today on a certain symptom set, then down the road when I run into that symptom set, it will remind me of this article and how that case worked out." Susan and Robert both stared. Wilson forced back a laugh. Watching House - who honestly got impatient with the concept that everybody else's mind _didn't_ work like Google - try to explain part of his professional process to Robert Cuddy, who looked like he was married to his file cabinet of the traditional sort, was hilarious.

Robert was incredulous. "You mean you _never _forget anything?" He immediately turned skeptical. "What were you doing this day a year ago? With specifics." His voice was a challenge.

House plugged the date in and rewound mentally. "I . . ." He hesitated, and Robert's expression of vindication annoyed him just enough to push him over the edge to keep going. "A year ago today, it was my third day back from work after an extended medical leave. I'd been hurt badly in a bus accident in late May of that year." His eyes slid sideways to Wilson and then fell. "The first two days were just catching up paperwork, but the third day was when I got the first case since I'd been back. It turned out to be a complication of lymphoma." And it had been the first case, his first one back, where he had needed Wilson's consultation and had not had Wilson there available to give it, since Wilson was still mired in grief and away from PPTH.

Cuddy immediately entered the conversation, her hand tightening on his underneath the table. Ridiculous to find that comforting, but he did. Just the connection, the understanding, the love that she could put into a simple squeeze of the fingers. "Trust me, Greg really doesn't forget things."

Robert was impressed but also uncomfortable at such a concept, something far in advance of his own memory. He immediately jumped back to firmer ground. "So, what made you decide to become a doctor, Greg?"

"I met a doctor in Japan once. He impressed me." House tried not to sound irritated. He wasn't actually irritated, but his tension right now, with Amber on top of his uncertainty about tomorrow, was off the scale.

"Did you ever consider going into the military, following in your father's footsteps?" Susan asked.

"No." House abruptly felt the walls closing in. "Excuse me a moment." He got up and headed toward the restrooms. Cuddy and Wilson both tracked him with their eyes, and Wilson stood up after a minute, excusing himself politely, and followed.

Cuddy was feeling guilty now. She should have prepared her parents to avoid the topic of John House, but how could she without giving an explanation that they did not need to know? She had simply hoped to keep the conversation on other areas, but she seemed to be failing at that. At least Blythe was showing remarkable restraint and not adding fuel to the topic herself. She had apparently taken Cuddy's threat that morning to heart. "Dad," Cuddy asked, "can we please stay off the subject of Greg's father? It's . . ."

Blythe suddenly stepped in. "There have just been a lot of adjustments to make since his death, and it's still extremely painful for the two of us to think about him."

Cuddy was startled. The perfect, social response, especially coupled with the previous information that it wasn't even a year since John's death. Susan and Robert immediately accepted it, giving soft murmurs of understanding, and Cuddy gave Blythe a sincere look of gratitude. "Thank you," she mouthed silently.

Wilson entered the restroom to find House leaning against the far wall. He actually looked like he might literally be sick at any moment. At least no one else was in here right now. "You okay?" Wilson asked and was glad to see the eye roll he received in response.

"Oh, just peachy. Let's see, we've talked about my father with a side dish of Amber. Why don't we just tell them everything and hit the trifecta for the evening? That's the perfect way to spend the evening before I ruin my fiancee's plans for her wedding."

Wilson leaned against the wall, careful not to close in too much, leaving House his personal space. House didn't want to be touched. What he wanted was to escape. "Just think, in 24 hours, you won't be anywhere near her parents, the wedding will have been over and a success, and everything will be wonderful." House gave a weak smile. "And you aren't going to ruin her wedding, House. Trust me. Is there _anybody _you've had to tell so far who didn't immediately think it was a fantastic idea?" House considered, then shook his head. "Right. Everybody loves it. _She _will love it."

After a moment's silence, House peeled himself off the wall. "I guess I'd better go back out there. I promised her I wouldn't abandon her to deal with them alone tonight. Broke that one pretty quickly."

"No, you didn't. You just went to the restroom. Normal biological function; I'll bet even her father has been today. Several times." Wilson stepped a little closer. "You might want to take your meds for the evening, though, at least the omeprazole. You really do look like you're feeling sick, and it might help. I doubt you want to take everything in front of them. Just take the pain meds, too. The food should be here by the time we get back out there."

"Right." House fished his bottles out of his pocket and lined them up on the sink. "Yes, I doubt I'd score many points for looking like a pill-popping junkie in front of them." He shook out the dinner doses and gulped them down dry. "This will be such a romantic addition to the routine on our honeymoon, too."

Wilson shook his head. "Naw, she'll be so dazed by your other talents that she won't care. And remember, there's one bottle that _isn't _in that collection. No little blue pills."

House grinned, suddenly grateful again for Wilson. "Right. I can even keep it up when I've had a few drinks, unlike some others."

Wilson understood that the jab was a sort of awkward thanks. "You're welcome, House. Now come on."

House pocketed the pills, and he and Wilson exited the restroom and returned to the table. The food had arrived, as Wilson had predicted, and that at least slowed down the social conversation. House didn't have much appetite, but at least nobody mentioned his father for the remainder of the evening.

(H/C)

The bedroom door closed, finally sealing them off from the rest of the world. "I'm sorry I ran out on you," House said immediately.

Cuddy flinched. "You didn't run out on me, and I apologize for not doing a better job of conversation steering." She sat down on the edge of the bed and kicked her shoes off, suddenly aware of how much she had been on her feet today. "Greg, I meant what I said in that third note. I am _happy _with you."

He picked up one of her feet, studying it. "Not swollen, but you were walking like they were hurting a bit toward the end."

"They were." She settled back and closed her eyes as he started skillfully massaging the tight arches. "I'll hire you for life anytime. That feels wonderful." He worked all tension out of her right foot, then captured her left, repeating the process. "Just think of tomorrow night, Greg," she said drowsily. "When it's just us, my parents left behind, the wedding over. This time tomorrow, we'll be in the hotel and thinking how perfect everything was." His fingers abruptly tripped, hesitating in their massage. She opened her eyes. "What is it?"

He resumed kneading her foot between his hands. "Nothing. Just thinking about tomorrow, like you said."

"It's going to be perfect, Greg."

His response wasn't voiced, but it hovered right on the edge of his lips. _I hope so._


	11. Chapter 11

Cuddy woke up a good half hour before her alarm clock on Friday. She switched the clock off, then lay there feeling the adrenaline pumping, feeling the anticipation, feeling the joy.

Wedding day.

She looked over at House sleeping beside her. Even with the light off, she could see him somewhat with the street light glow through the window. He was solidly out, but she could see his eyes twitching behind the closed lids, and there was tension on his face. She reached over to touch him lightly. He wasn't having one of his nightmares - he would be sweating, his entire body would lock up, and he would try to retreat through the mattress in those, though he was always quiet - but whatever he was dreaming about right now wasn't terribly pleasant, either. She ran one hand along the side of his face and leaned over to kiss him, not on the lips, as she wasn't really trying to wake him up, but hopefully enough to register her presence in his subconscious, to give him an ally in whatever dream problem he was wrestling at the moment. He did respond, turning his head slightly toward her, and the lines of tension smoothed out a little bit. She kept one hand on him, keeping the contact, and let her mind rewind over the last few days.

She was a bit worried about him, and she wasn't sure why. He had certainly had tough days both Wednesday, with the furniture movers and Blythe's letter, and Thursday, with that excruciating dinner with her parents and the rest of the wedding party. There were sufficient reasons for his being on edge, but she couldn't shake a feeling that there was something else bothering him, too. Intuition didn't point to second thoughts about the wedding, though. Besides, he'd reassured her directly last Friday that he had no second thoughts about marrying her. Was he still absurdly stuck on not being able to carry her across the threshold into the hotel room tonight? She had tried in every way she could to reassure him that it truly didn't matter, but men could be so ridiculously sensitive on perceived physical failings. If reassurance alone wasn't enough, maybe she needed to indulge in some further strategy. She worked herself into a sitting position, still keeping a hand on him, and let herself scheme. Just today, she decided, she would forgo physical yoga in favor of mental.

Sounds slowly began to creep underneath the door. Light footsteps, the closed door of the bathroom. Everybody probably would be up early today. She herself wanted to be at the wedding site as soon after daylight as she could, supervising the setup and making sure that that annoying florist had in fact gotten everything right. She shuddered to think what it would have turned out like without her intense efforts to stay on top of them over the last week. The sound system was being brought in, too. She frowned slightly, thinking. She had picked out her favorite songs for different parts, but she still kept considering substitution and actually had changed the list a few times so far, trying to fit them in the perfect spots. She desperately wanted it all to be right. She also needed to check the weather again, although birds tuning up outside were giving their own forecast. Wilson was probably right; she no doubt had checked the forecast 50 times this week. She also needed to check the reception setup in the community center next to the outdoor site, and the cake would be coming in this morning. And she had her hair appointment.

Breathe, she reminded herself. Remember how happy you are. With or without every detail in place, it's going to be wonderful.

A door closed a little loudly outside in the hall, and House twitched at the thud, tension creeping back in, his mouth tightening up. She had meant to try to let him sleep in, but that was clearly going to be impossible with all the activity in the house this morning, and she decided to go ahead and wake him up now. He didn't seem to be getting much worthwhile rest anyway, and she really had to get up and moving herself. She didn't want to leave him alone with his dreams, even if they were only apparently unpleasant dreams and not nightmares of his childhood.

She ran one hand down the side of his head, stroking his hair, and leaned over. "Greg," she said softly.

Footsteps padded up and down the hall outside in the wakening house, and House jerked his head away from the noise, mumbling softly, but she clearly heard the words. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd like it. Don't be mad."

She was startled enough to pause in her efforts to wake him. Was he dreaming about wedding disasters himself? If her failed wedding dreams consisted of the wrong flowers and sound system feedback, she wondered what his consisted of. She had to cringe inwardly at that "I'm sorry," a phrase he hated and only used, involuntarily, when he felt that he personally had failed. She shook her head in exasperation. Whatever might happen, incorrect flowers, misbehaving sound system, it was hardly his own fault. She leaned over again and kissed him, going for the lips this time, and she felt him scramble to confused wakefulness beneath her and finally start to respond. "Good morning, future husband," she said as she broke away. "And the future isn't too far off."

"Good morning, future wife," he replied. He looked toward the door and the growing activity beyond it. "Your family shares your idea of getting-up time, naturally."

"I think everybody will be up early today. Sleep well?"

"Fine," he lied, looking away. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and flinched as his leg immediately protested. It must be the muscle tension from the last few days in general that had it especially riled up this morning. His hand crept toward it, then pulled back, hoping she hadn't noticed.

Cuddy immediately slipped out of bed and padded around to his side, sitting down next to him, her hands going to the leg. The muscle was definitely trying to cramp up, and she worked on it. House closed his eyes. "Fantastic start to our wedding day," he said with a twist of bitterness under the tone.

"Yes, it was," she replied, never stopping the work on the leg. "I woke up next to the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and the weather seems to be wonderful. That's a perfect start to our wedding day." She looked up at him. "Remember, Greg, the little details don't really matter. The only thing that matters today is that we love each other, and with that set, it is going to be wonderful." She felt him relax a bit, both mentally and physically. "And tonight, it will just be us, no more parents, no more details. We get a whole week of telling the world to go away." His lips curved upward slightly, liking that thought.

A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door. "Lisa? I think Rachel is starting to wake up." It was Blythe.

"I'll get her. Just a minute," Cuddy called. She released House's leg. "Is that better?"

He nodded. "Go on. I know you want to get through breakfast and out to inspect and supervise everything." She gave him a final kiss for the moment as a downpayment on tonight, and then she grabbed her robe and slipped out the door.

House sat there on the bed, still working his leg lightly himself. The night had been a restless montage of wedding disaster, variations on only one theme, and he hoped he hadn't disturbed her sleep. She looked alert and well rested this morning, though. He stood up, leaning on the nightstand to give his leg a moment to adjust. Yes, the leg wasn't too happy today.

It wasn't too late, he thought. He could still cancel everything and leave her with the wedding she herself had planned. Who was he to think he knew better than she did what she would want? Yes, he could just let his idea go and watch her enjoy hers.

And be the coward that his father had always told him he was.

His whole body tensed up in rebellion, the leg protesting, but just then, he didn't care. "Go to hell, you bastard, and stay out of today. You don't belong here," he hissed. He grabbed his own clothes and headed for the private bathroom at a determined limp, his mind made up.

Wedding day . . .


	12. Chapter 12

Cuddy pushed back from the breakfast table. "I hate to eat and run, but it's a busy morning."

"Go on, dear. We'll see you there," Susan replied. Cuddy bent over to kiss Rachel in the high chair and then kiss House quickly on her way around the table. In a flurry of agenda, she gathered her purse and marched out the door.

No sooner had the door closed behind her than House hit his feet almost as quickly. "I've got . . . a few last minute things to do. See you there, everybody." He gave Rachel a pat on the way by, and she turned her head to follow him curiously, making the next mouthful en route from the nanny miss her mouth. House retreated down the hall and emerged a minute later with his wedding clothes in a garment bag in one hand and his cane in the other. He hurried out the door at a brisk limp.

Blythe and the Cuddys were left eying each other curiously around the table. "What did _he _have to do at the last minute?" Susan asked, sensing something not quite usual, not quite correct. Nerves from the groom were standard; last minute details from him were not. She had an indulgent smile for Cuddy's obsessive final checking, but House had a scheming look in his eye, and she was still trying to decide if he was trustworthy.

Blythe shrugged. "I don't have a clue what he's up to." There was happy anticipation in her tone, though, the mother with confidence in her son. She well remembered that particular spark in his eye from childhood, from moments when he wasn't firmly repressed under John's thumb. He was on one of his schemes, and they always had been interesting to watch and usually an improvement on the original.

"He'd better turn up on time," Robert rumbled. If that man dared to stand his little girl up . . .

"He'll be there," Blythe assured them.

The nanny listened to it all and was grateful that her assignment today was only keeping up with Rachel, not trying to control Dr. House.

(H/C)

House got into his car. Cuddy's car was already gone; she was headed off for her final inspection and supervision of the setup at the wedding site. That should take her about an hour and a half, and then her hair appointment would lure her away. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed quickly. "It's House," he said. "All systems go; I'm leaving right now. I'll meet you there." He clicked end, then dialed again. "This is House. We're on. Meet me there in two hours." He hung up and then hit speed dial two immediately.

"Morning!" Wilson sounded bright and cheerful. "Last minute second thoughts?"

"No," House replied. "We're on. I just called them and set things in motion."

"Great. I'll talk to Cameron. This is going to be perfect, House."

"I hope so. And wipe that dopey grin off your face. I can hear it all the way through the phone."

Wilson's dopey grin widened. "See you in a while. Happy wedding day, House."

House slowly pocketed the cell phone, then took a deep breath and started the car. He backed out of the driveway, turned the opposite way from what Cuddy had five minutes earlier, and headed off to start his own last-minute site setup and supervision.

(H/C)

Cuddy gave a final look around. Ample chairs in perfect rows, flowers - the _correct _flowers - all in place, the sound system connected and tested. She took a deep breath, then walked to the back of the chairs and walked down the aisle, trying to spot any little detail off.

It was perfect.

The reception hall was still being set up, but she had already inspected and approved the cake. She'd be sure to take a final look around in there before retreating to the dressing room where her dress already awaited her.

With a final deep breath, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed House. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," he replied. He was in the car, she could tell. "Did everything meet with your approval?"

"It's wonderful. The flowers are the right ones, and you should see the cake. I just wanted to apologize for leaving you with both sets of parents alone while I did this."

"I have a confession to make. I didn't stay there long."

She chuckled. "I don't blame you. Have a nice escape drive, but don't be late."

"I won't," he assured her. "I'll promise you that. Are you leaving now for your hair appointment?"

"Yes. See you soon. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Cuddy hung up, reassured that he hadn't sat there enduring the parents for too long. She gave a final look around, then walked around the building to the front parking lot and headed for her car.

She never noticed the large van that she passed three blocks away.

(H/C)

By the time Cuddy got back from the hair appointment, there were more cars in the parking lot. She got out and was almost immediately tackled by Wilson, looking resplendent in his tux. He gave her a hug. "Good morning. You look fantastic."

"I'm not even wearing the real dress yet, Wilson."

"You still look fantastic. I ordered some sandwiches that are on a table at the side of the reception hall. Not for the reception, just for us all to nibble while getting ready. With the ceremony at 1:00, we wouldn't really have time for lunch."

"Oh, thank you, Wilson. That was a nice thought." She started toward the sidewalk around the building to the large lawn at the back, and he captured her arm and pulled her toward the front door instead.

"You might want to look at the cake and punch bowl. I think they may have set the cake table up wrong."

Cuddy gritted her teeth. "Can't anybody do anything right without supervision? The cake was fine when I was here earlier, but they weren't totally set up." She turned back toward the front door to the main building, stalking in with purpose and turning into the large reception room. "No! Why did you set up the napkins that way on the cake table?"

One of the caterers looked helplessly at Cuddy and then at Wilson. "But we. . ."

"You know how I wanted it. I even sent a diagram." Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Fix it, right now."

Wilson slid up closer to the caterer, murmuring something that was probably an explanation/apology for the bride's nerves. The woman still looked confused, but at least she didn't protest any more. Cuddy stood there, hands on hips, watching as the table was completely rearranged, a process that took a good 20 minutes. They had almost finished when Cameron entered. She immediately gave Cuddy a hug. "I am so happy for you."

Cuddy eyed her, assessing. It was no secret that Cameron had carried a candle - okay, a full-sized torch - for House for years. The sincerity in her eyes right now couldn't be doubted, though. "Really," Cameron assured her. "You two are meant for each other. The whole hospital has known it for years."

Cuddy smiled. "They might have told us a few years ago and saved some lost time."

"Would you have listened?"

"Probably not." Cuddy gave a final look at the table, approving the revised version, then turned away toward the door. "I ought to take another look out back."

"I thought you inspected it already," Wilson said.

Right then, House himself came in through the front door. He was still wearing his usual jeans but carrying his suit with his non cane hand. Cuddy studied his stride. Clearly, his leg was still bothering him. His eyes were clear, though. He limped up to them. "Told you I wouldn't be late," he said as Cuddy finally reluctantly let him go.

"You did indeed." She stepped back, and Cameron, who had been standing at the side, came over to give House a hug herself. House pushed back, annoyed. Yep, she had the "isn't this adorably romantic" look in her eyes. He rolled his.

"Quit it. I'm a one-woman man now. Just because she grabs me doesn't mean anybody's welcome to."

Cameron released him, but her eyes were still sparkling. "I'm so happy for both of you."

Cuddy started toward the door again, and Wilson immediately said, "Why don't we all grab a sandwich while we have a minute? You'll have to start getting dressed soon, and you need something to eat." He waved a hand at the small table set up at the side.

"You all go ahead," Cuddy replied. "I'm not hungry, and I want to make sure everything's still right outside."

"Good idea," House said, immediately coming up beside her. "I'm not hungry either. Let's go." He made it two strides before his leg faltered slightly, and Cuddy gripped his elbow to steady him.

"Leg still bothering you more?" she asked softly.

"Some," he replied, absolutely truthfully. It was rather annoyed, even more than it had been when he woke up. The intervening activities had only added to the deep ache.

"Have you had your meds today?" She glanced at her watch.

"I took them right before breakfast. Haven't had any since."

"It's heading for noon, Greg. Go grab a sandwich and take another dose."

He shook his head. "I'm really not hungry. Pre wedding jitters, I guess."

"You need to eat, Greg. You know you can't take those prescription-dose NSAIDs on an empty stomach." He opened his mouth to protest again, and she sighed and turned back toward the sandwich table. "You are going to eat a sandwich. At least one. Come on."

Reluctantly, he followed her toward the side of the room, taking a moment to wink at Wilson. He actually hadn't been lying. His leg _was_ hurting, he had _not _taken his noon meds yet, and the flock of butterflies in his stomach left no room for being hungry. Still, he thought the stumble was a nice touch, even if his leg didn't agree on that. Cuddy pushed him down into one of the chairs and returned a few minutes later with a sandwich in each hand, trailed by Wilson with two glasses of ice tea. "Eat," she ordered, shoving one of them in front of him.

House took a bite. He tried to stretch out forcing it down as long as he could, but it really wasn't an act. He wasn't hungry. He was glad for Wilson's presence, as his friend returned with his own sandwich and drink and joined them, keeping up conversation. They were both finished and House was eying the last few bites of his sandwich under Cuddy's firm eye when Rachel, in the arms of the nanny, entered.

Immediately, there was a new focus of attention as most members of the wedding party went over to admire her, already cleaned up and in a frilly yellow dress. The nanny had managed to get small flowers attached in her hair. House stood up to go meet her, trying to ditch the last bite of his sandwich in a trash can along the way, and Cuddy's iron fingers closed around his wrist. "Eat it," she commanded. He popped it in his mouth and forced it down. The butterflies were still fluttering at full speed, and the fresh meds weren't making much of a dent in his leg.

Rachel reached out toward both of them as they approached, and Cuddy picked her up. "There's my gorgeous little girl." She smiled at the nanny. "She looks wonderful. Thank you."

House reached out to inspect the flowers, trying to determine the method of attachment, and Cuddy smacked his fingers away. "Don't dissect them just to figure it out. You'll mess up the arrangement."

Cameron had reappeared, oohing over Rachel, then turning to Cuddy. "It's 12:00. You really need to get your dress on."

Cuddy looked back toward the door. "I haven't looked over the site yet."

"Sure you have," Wilson replied. "You did first thing this morning, remember?"

"I saw it a little while ago, and it looked absolutely gorgeous," Cameron put in. Cuddy hesitated, wanting to see it herself, but another woman's word at least counted for more than the men's.

"Everything was okay? Flowers? Sound system? Platform?"

"Everything was perfect," Cameron put in. "Come on, I can't wait to see you in that dress. I was admiring it earlier." With Cameron gently shepherding, Cuddy headed toward the dressing rooms. House let out a deep breath and folded up into the nearest chair.

Wilson put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tense muscles beneath. "You doing okay?" he asked.

House nodded. His eyes were still on Cuddy, following her until a door intervened.

"It's going to be wonderful, House," Wilson reassured him. "Although you might want to change clothes yourself."

House looked down at his jeans and T-shirt. "I don't know. This is the me she fell in love with."

"Don't go there," Wilson warned. "What you've done is one thing, but don't ever change the clothes a woman has picked out for her wedding. No woman loves a man that much."

House chuckled. "I don't know. I'd kind of like to see the expression on her father's face if I was up on the platform in this."

"No, you wouldn't," Wilson replied. "Come on. Cameron will keep Cuddy busy until the ceremony."

House stood and started for another of the private rooms at the back. "How does it take women an hour to dress anyway? Even for a wedding. Her hair's already done."

"All of my wives took longer than that," Wilson replied. He picked up House's suit and followed his friend.

(H/C)

Only an hour. Cuddy hated getting dressed in a hurry, even for work, much less for her wedding. There had been too many things in this day so far. She studied herself in the mirror, the cream wedding gown, fitted over the slight but visible bulge in her abdomen. She studied her figure, glad of the pregnancy but wondering if she looked fat in general rather than pregnant.

"Relax," Cameron said. "It's perfect. You're gorgeous."

Cuddy took a deep breath. "You're sure everything is ready outside."

"Everything is perfect." Cameron took a final assessment of her own bridesmaid's dress and her hair.

A knock sounded at the door. It was Robert Cuddy. "All ready?" Cameron swung the door wider, and he stared, frozen in his tracks, seeing his daughter in the middle of the room in her wedding gown.

Cuddy couldn't beleive it. Her father actually had tears welling up in his eyes? "Quit it, Dad." She came over to join him.

"My little girl, all grown up. You're beautiful, Lisa."

Robert tucked her arm under his, and they started out through the main room, along the sidewalk around the building. Cameron preceded them. Cuddy saw the final rows of chairs come into view, with apparently a full crowd. Probably half of PPTH was still wondering if this was a grand-scale practical joke and had come to see for themselves. She couldn't see much of the front at first, with everything slowly coming into view as they advanced toward the aisle opening at the back. The music for the procession of the mothers and then for Cameron's walk down was just as it should have been. Cuddy and her father reached the back of the aisle and stopped, waiting. The flowers lining the aisle were perfect, the rabbi and Wilson waiting up front, Wilson holding Rachel, and House . . . House wasn't where she expected him, not holding Rachel, not at the front of the aisle waiting for her, and she was so busy looking for him that it took her a moment to notice the massive difference on the platform. Most of the decorations had been shifted to one side, still organized but not as she had done it. The canopy was still in place, but the entire left-hand side of the platform was now taken up by . . .

Cuddy blinked, wondering if she were hallucinating. No, she wasn't.

House was sitting on the platform, perfectly dressed in a tux and the blue silk shirt she had picked out, sitting behind the keyboard of his own baby grand piano.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: So now you know the surprise. If you get a chance, go back and read the opening scene of chapter 5, House and his piano, and notice how that scene can be read two completely different ways, depending on what your perspective is. I've played fair, and there have been hints. But it was a lot of fun doing that piano scene, like one of those brainteaser pictures that shows either a young woman or an old one, depending on how your mind's eye catches it at the time. Thanks for all the reviews.

Enjoy the wedding! (And then, fasten your seat belts.)

(H/C)

Cuddy was absolutely frozen to the spot.

House and his piano. _His _piano. How on earth had it gotten here?

And he was going to play? Here, not only in public but in front of dozens of hospital people who knew only his professional side? His piano was such an intensely private part of him. He didn't even like taking requests, not even from the few friends who knew of and appreciated his talent. More often than not, he just played stream of consciousness, pouring out all the emotion he tried so hard to hide from the world into the music. Nobody seeing him play could ever again consider him nothing more than a cold-hearted bastard. She couldn't believe he would expose himself so in front of any crowd, let alone in front of _this_ one.

She stood there in shock too long, and even though she couldn't see his eyes well at this distance, she felt his mood shift from tentative hopefulness to failure. Cuddy abruptly realized that she had about half a second at most to thaw herself and give him some sort of feedback before he looked away, having mistaken astonishment for disapproval. She smiled at him, a smile of such kilowatts that it immediately thawed not only his mood but even radiated down through her frozen legs. She was once more aware of her body, aware of the occasion. She once more felt capable of movement.

The rabbi had given her a moment, realizing as House had not that she was simply unable to grasp it all at first. When he felt that she could continue, he raised his voice. "Now, all rise for the bride," he said, "while her fiance plays a song he composed for her, Cuddy's Serenade." The audience stood, those from PPTH turning two ways as if watching a ping-pong game, torn between looking back at Cuddy and looking up at House.

It was in that moment that House irrevocably won over Susan Cuddy.

House began. The serenade had never sounded better, absolutely everything poured into it, and Cuddy started forward as if pulled toward him on the current of the music. She nearly pulled her father over and gave an impatient jerk at his arm, her eyes never leaving House. "Come _on_, Dad!" she hissed under her breath.

Robert forced his own body out of shock. He had noted the piano, which hadn't been here last night, when he walked through about 45 minutes ago, but the man guarding it, a Dr. Chase, said simply that there would be piano music during the ceremony as a surprise for Cuddy. He hadn't specified when or by whom and certainly not the groom's own composition. This was so far out of Robert's assessment of House to this point, not to mention light years away from Lyla's disparaging description, that he himself was rooted to the spot at first, and it was Cuddy who pulled him down the aisle rather than him walking her.

Wilson stood at the front watching Cuddy approach while listening to the music behind him. She was absolutely radiant, her steps quick and eager, not like a bride's usual slow pace. She was nearly dragging her father along. Her eyes never left House, and the pure love and pride there made Wilson's dopey grin stretch out even further. Finally, these two had gotten it together.

Rachel, in Wilson's arms, didn't even notice her mother. She was looking back, watching House, mesmerized by the music.

Several PPTH employees stood stunned, listening to the composition, watching his skilled fingers flying over the keys, seeing his face - he was playing entirely without music and not even looking at his hands, his eyes riveted on Cuddy. That couldn't be Dr. House. Not possibly. Minds scrambled around theories such as alien takeover as they tried to make sense of all this.

Foreman stood with an expression for once of absolute shock on his usual stolid features.

Blythe stood watching her son, pride spilling over along with love down her face, and for the moment, she was not even aware of her cane, no more than he was thinking of his.

Jensen watched his patient with a surge of respect. More than anybody else in the group other than Cuddy and Wilson, he understood just how much House had risked and just how uncertain he had been of its success, yet had stepped out anyway. The musician in Jensen appreciated the music and the skill; the man really was good, professionally good, but it was the psychiatrist who was most impressed.

House and Cuddy watched each other and didn't even notice the rest of them. She and her father came to a halt in front of the rabbi, and everyone stood still as the Serenade played out. House finished and sat there for a microsecond, feeling the knots in his stomach and in his leg finally completely release. It was okay. He reached for his cane and stood, and only Jensen and Cuddy noted the subtle, affectionate touch that he gave the instrument as he left it. He moved down to join her, and the ceremony began.

(H/C)

The glass shattered, and a chorus of "Mazel Tov" was heard. House reached over to take Rachel from the nanny. He wanted her with them on the walk back down the aisle. With Rachel in his left arm, his cane in his right hand, and Cuddy on the left looping under his arm and also around Rachel, they started back up the aisle, past the smiling, congratulatory faces. When they reached the end of the walkway between the chairs and started walking toward the building, Cuddy broke formation and moved around to face him, her eyes absolutely sparkling.

"All right. _How _did you do that?"

House grinned at her. "You like?"

"You know I did. It was perfect. But the piano movers . . ."

"I wasn't talking to them Wednesday morning; that was Wilson. I'd called him when I got up and told him to call me in 5 minutes. You only heard my side of the conversation. We had to have an explanation for you why it didn't come over Wednesday."

"You could have moved it on Wednesday and then out of the house this morning."

He shook his head. "Too many parents around. The less advance notice any of them had, the more likely it was to surprise you. The piano movers were set up for this morning all along; I met them at the apartment, and we got here right after you left. The piano tuner met us here."

Cuddy nearly tackled him, squeezing Rachel between them in the vigor of her embrace. "That," she said, breaking away reluctantly from his lips, "was the most beautiful, romantic thing you have ever done. Better than the desk, even."

"Come on, you two." Wilson had come up to join them. "Save it for the honeymoon. We've got a reception right now, and then you two have a plane to catch."

A small crease of worry broke House's smile. "And don't forget one of your most important assignments for today." He turned, looking back toward the platform.

"I couldn't possibly. You'd kill me."

Cuddy frowned in thought as they resumed walking toward the reception hall. "What assignment?"

"I'm supervising the piano movers to your house after everything's over," Wilson answered. "We can't just leave it here, you know. In fact, Chase is guarding it right now."

Cuddy stopped again, wondering how often House could astonish her in one day. "Wilson is supervising the piano movers? _Wilson_?" She couldn't believe it. House had a fit if anybody even touched his beloved piano, much less moved it. She had no doubt he had been right on top of the movers this morning, wishing he could help or even do it alone. She abruptly remembered how his leg had been hurting him even more when he came into the reception hall earlier. Even the act of supervising and not helping had put a strain on him. What on earth would leaving while someone else moved it do? "Wilson can't do that."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence," Wilson said.

"I mean it. Do it yourself, Greg."

House looked both hopeful and reluctant at the same time. "But we're leaving right after the reception. We've got a plane to catch. Honeymoon, remember?"

"A _private_ plane, Greg. All we have to do is call the pilot and put takeoff back an hour and a half."

Wilson shook his head. "You want to put off your honeymoon even briefly to move a piano?"

"The honeymoon can wait just a little. He'll be tied into knots worrying otherwise."

"I was going to send a picture," Wilson said.

Cuddy shook her head. "Do it yourself, Greg."

"You really don't mind?"

"I really don't mind." They were in the reception hall now, and she reached for her cell phone before realizing that she didn't have it on her. Why didn't wedding gowns come with cell phone pockets? Wilson promptly produced his and offered it, and Cuddy stepped away to call the pilot, having to go through information first to get the number. She rejoined them after a minute with a smile. "Done. Our honeymoon is now postponed an hour and a half."

House felt the final knot of tension relax. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome." She took Rachel back from him. "Okay, let's get this reception rolling. Lots to do."

House and Wilson exchanged a look as Cuddy the administrator took back over, obviously setting out on an agenda. Wilson shook his head. "Someone who will postpone her honeymoon to let you move a piano. House, you've finally found the perfect woman."

"I know," House replied. He looked at the gathering crowd around them, wishing the congratulations and reception could just be skipped. But if Cuddy could put off the honeymoon for the piano movers, he could be civilized at the reception and try to at least look like he was enjoying himself.

At that moment, he was nearly knocked over by Susan Cuddy. He was starting to feel like he was being strangled by an octopus before she finally let go. "Greg, that was just so . . . romantic." Tears glistened in her eyes. "I have no clue where Lyla got her ideas, but I am _so _happy for you and Lisa."

House extricated himself stoically. "We're glad you could make it . . . and glad Lyla couldn't."

Susan smiled at him. "So am I."

"Greg!" Cuddy was over by the cake table. "Come on. We've got the piano movers coming."

Susan looked puzzled. "You're moving the piano after your reception? I thought you were leaving right away for the honeymoon."

"Plans change," House replied, relieved that they did. He started toward the table where Cuddy was waiting.

Jensen came up, walking beside him, Melissa and Cathy trailing in the background, and House stopped to greet them. "Glad you could make it," he said sincerely.

"We wouldn't have missed it," Jensen replied. He met House's eyes directly. "That was magnificent," he said softly. "Good for you."

"I was that close to calling it off and going with her version this morning," House admitted.

"But you didn't." Jensen started walking again. "Come on, your bride is waiting."

His bride. House couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Tonight, he and Cuddy would be on their honeymoon . . . after moving his piano. Could life get any better?

Almost to the table, he encountered the team. Taub and Thirteen offered congratulations, and Kutner offered a high-five, which House returned. Foreman opened his mouth, still trying to regain the power of speech, but nothing came out. His normally impassive features still looked stunned. "Close your mouth," House advised. "You look like a fish."

He moved on past the team to the head of the table, and Cuddy started cutting the first piece of cake.

(H/C)

Hours later, hours of piano movers, planes, and then a taxi, they were at the hotel, heading for the honeymoon suite. The bellboy opened the door, put their suitcases inside, pocketed a tip, and discreetly vanished. House and Cuddy stood in the hall just outside the room. He opened his mouth, starting to apologize once more, and before he could get a word out, Cuddy literally tackled him with all the urgency and passion she'd fought to restrain since realizing he had brought the piano to their wedding. In a tangle of need, they stumbled together into the honeymoon suite, and Cuddy's firm kick closed the door behind them.

House wasn't even aware where the threshold was.

(H/C)

End of Part One


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Warning: The story from this point gets intensely medical, and there are also very explicit issues of abuse discussed. About the medical, I am not a doctor. This is not the New England Journal of Medicine and makes no pretense toward it. It's a fanfiction story, an unpaid fanfiction story, purely for your enjoyment. Details have been researched and also are being passed by an actual doctor (though not a specialist in any of the involved areas) as the chapters are written down.

From this chapter for quite a while, there is practically one continuous cliffhanger. Stopping it anywhere would count as a cliffhanger, so don't object to where I end things, as you wouldn't much like the next ending point better. Medical proofing of the chapters is an extra step and will delay things a bit, although it's already in process.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

(H/C)

_Part Two _

_Early October_

The ultrasound probe moved across Cuddy's growing abdomen, and she and House were both riveted to the screen. Her baby. _Their _baby, who was more and more resembling a baby, albeit a miniature one. The steady sound of the heartbeat reassured her. Everything was going well. After all the previous disappointments, after all the times her body had betrayed her, everything was going so well.

"Everything looks great," Dr. Stanton said. "You're at 25 weeks now."

"We have calendars, too," House put in, but his comment lacked his usual snarky tone. His eyes had also softened watching his daughter.

Stanton ignored him, through long practice. "How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful," Cuddy said. "A few minor leg cramps at times, but not too bad, and Greg gives a great massage. And of course there's the feeling that I'm slowly being inflated by a tire pump." It seemed that her whole body, not just her abdomen, was starting to think it was pregnant.

Stanton smiled. "That goes with the territory, I'm afraid. I've set up an appointment to get your glucose screening test done next week for gestational diabetes, but overall, this has been a textbook pregnancy so far."

Cuddy studied her daughter's face, clearly visible on the monitor. "I can't wait to actually see her."

"Actually we want to wait a good bit longer," House said. He leaned over, addressing her abdomen. "Do not open until Christmas at earliest. You hear in there?"

"Oh, you know what I meant," Cuddy responded. "And don't try to pretend you aren't just as excited about this."

Stanton removed the ultrasound probe and handed Cuddy some tissues to wipe the gel off her skin. "Well, I will see you next appointment, and we'll have the results of the glucose test back." He looked over at House. "You don't need to come with her to the glucose test. It's just a blood draw." House had attended every single one of Cuddy's prenatal visits, even the early ones when he was on crutches and having trouble getting around himself.

"Got to make sure you all do it right," House responded.

Cuddy rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide the smile. "I'm sure we'll both be here. Thank you, Doctor." Stanton left the room, and Cuddy pulled her top down - she was in maternity clothes now - and sat up on the table. "Greg, let's celebrate tonight."

"We celebrate almost every night," he replied, with a gleam in his eye. Pregnancy had certainly had an affect on Cuddy's appetite, in more ways than one, and he was appreciating this pregnancy on several levels himself.

"Actually, that's not what I meant. Or not until later. Let's go out to eat. The two of us plus Rachel."

"Since a 10-month-old makes a wonderful addition to a romantic dinner." He liked the idea, though. "Let's see, what upscale, romantic, candlelit restaurant has high chairs?"

She slid off the table, landing neatly on her feet. "We could hire a sitter, but I just think it would be fun to go out as a family. All four of us."

"Three and a half," he corrected, but his eyes were shining. "It does sound like a good idea. Even if we have to downscale the upscale a bit."

"It doesn't have to be the best restaurant in town. Just anywhere with all of us."

"Burgers and fries?" he suggested. "There's a great burger joint not far from the campus. Several steps down from haute cuisine, but a few up from McDonald's. They actually cook your burger to order there - and they even have a veggie burger."

"That sounds great, actually. It's not that I'm in the mood for a fancy meal; I just want to do something together." Cuddy was still soaking up the marvelous feeling of family, a feeling lacking for so long.

House opened the exam room door, and they walked out, side by side. She studied him out of the corner of her eye. He looked _good _these days. All right, he had always looked good, but he looked healthier than he had in a long time, less tense, more content. His stride would never be regular, but his leg was doing as well as it ever did lately. His sarcasm was still intact, but even it had softened a bit around the edges lately. "Does that mean we get to skip the rest of the day at the hospital and play hooky?" he asked right then.

She rolled her eyes. "No. We do both have jobs. It means we get to leave at 5:00, _after _putting in a legitimate afternoon's work."

"Slave driver," he protested.

"Slacker," she returned. "Stop trying to be a bad influence on me."

"But being a bad influence is so much fun!" he replied, a little louder than he needed to be, loud enough that everyone in the waiting room they were passing through right then heard. Heads turned, sizing up him and her condition. Cuddy sighed.

"Behave yourself," she whispered. "At least for the rest of today."

His eyes brightened at the thought of tonight, especially at the end, when behaving himself was no longer required, and he stood meekly silent as she checked out.

(H/C)

"No!" Rachel had a new word added to her still-limited vocabulary, and she employed it as House tried to maneuver her squirming form into the car seat in the back of Cuddy's car.

"Quit it, squirt," he admonished, wrestling straps.

Cuddy smiled, lost in happiness again. The dinner out had been perfect. Years ago, this would have been nothing like her picture of a romantic night out, but right now, she wouldn't have traded it for the best restaurant in New York. How ideals could change. It _had_ been romantic eating at a corner burger joint with her family, and she was thoroughly ready for her personal dessert - not to mention another of his spectacular leg massages. She shifted her weight slightly.

House noticed, of course, even with his head in the car and his back turned. She swore the man had 360-degree radar where she was concerned. "Legs bothering you?"

"They're starting to ache just a little. I'll take another one of those massages when we get home."

"You want me to drive?" He succeeded in snapping the final strap just then and gave Rachel a consolation pat. "Too bad, kid, but that's what you get for wrestling with the master." He turned to face Cuddy. "Well?"

She hesitated. Her legs were starting to ache, and there was more stretch-out room as a passenger. "Okay, but you drive the speed limit, Greg, or no dessert when you get home."

"Don't you trust me?" He put on an air of being wounded.

"Implicitly, but the police department doesn't share that opinion. So take it easy."

"You wound me. I'll be a model citizen. Precious cargo, you know." She got in the passenger's side as he walked around the car. "Besides, wouldn't want a ticket to delay dessert."

"I knew that was your real motivation," she said dryly. Actually, her eyes had softened at his words precious cargo, and she knew that for all his act, that was his true feeling.

House started off, being as decorous as any traffic cop could have wished, and Cuddy leaned back and closed her eyes. "You okay?" he said immediately.

"I am absolutely wonderful, and keep your eyes on the road. Have you thought any more about names?"

Even with her eyes closed, she felt him tighten up a bit. "I have, but nothing seems quite right. I want it to be perfect."

"Remember back before the wedding, when I was worried about all the details? It will be wonderful anyway. Not that I don't want a great name, but I think you're overthinking this at times, Greg. The name doesn't have some magical impact on the future. Our child will have a happy life named anything." Even with eyes closed, she sensed the mischief immediately rise in him.

"Madonna."

"Forget it," she vetoed. "Okay, not absolutely anything. Let's try to have some class here."

"Yamaha," he suggested. "Makers of truly classy pianos." He stopped at a stoplight, and she opened her eyes to look over at him. He had turned to face her while the car was stopped, and his blue eyes were reflecting the streetlights and laughing at her. Even in mostly darkness, they were beautiful, and she suddenly wished the light would change in a hurry. She was ready for dessert waiting them at home.

The light did change just then, as if hearing her thoughts. "It's green, Greg. Get going," she urged.

"Getting impatient, are we?" He turned back to face the road as he took his foot off the brake. "Relax. It will be there waiting . . ."

"GREG!" She saw the headlights appear suddenly beyond his shoulder, oblivious to the red light, the drunk driver pulling out from a bar up from the intersection and gathering speed as he hurtled like a loaded pistol down the road. House's head jerked around, and he tried to accelerate and swerve at the same time, but the drunk made a matching swerve. Cuddy felt the sickening crash, the car feeling almost airborne for a moment, then a second impact much closer on her side, pounding the door in against her. The street and business lights and Rachel's cries swirled together into a tunnel as she lost consciousness, and her last thought was sickening fear at the pain spreading across her abdomen. Everything went black.


	15. Chapter 15

House opened his eyes. Lights. Cries. His senses were flooded, and it took him a moment to sort it out and remember.

The drunk driver. Lisa. Rachel.

He twisted sharply, looking to the passenger's side. Cuddy was slumped absolutely motionless, and he frantically reached over to feel the carotid. Her pulse was weak and fast beneath his fingertips. Her chest barely seemed to move; he had to look twice to make sure she was breathing. Rachel in the back seat was crying at full volume, which at least announced that her ABC's were fully intact, no matter what other injuries she might have.

House fished out his cell phone. Three numbers had never taken so long to push.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Car accident." House raised his voice a bit to be heard over Rachel. He'd check her more closely in a minute, but first thing's first. Cuddy needed an ambulance now. "My wife is unconscious, tachycardic, possibly internal injuries. She's pregnant. My 10-month-old daughter might be hurt as well."

"Location?" House looked up at the street sign nearly directly over the windshield and read off the roads. "We're sending an ambulance now, sir. Were any other cars involved?"

"One drunk idiot. Maybe another car. . ." He hesitated, looking around. What had happened to the right side of the car, the one crumpled in so badly against Cuddy and Rachel? He remembered the drunk hitting them on the left, beside him. He looked beyond the car and realized what had happened. The drunk must have knocked them airborne several feet, and they had collided with the concrete base of the traffic signal. "Just one. He knocked us into a light pole." He reached over to check Cuddy's pulse again. It seemed a bit weaker. "We'll need the jaws of life. They're going to have to peel open that side." He tried to open his door, but it wouldn't, even reaching through and trying from the outside. The window next to him was completely gone. The door was creased, though not nearly as bad as the right side of the car.

"They're on their way, sir. Are you hurt yourself?"

"I'm fine," House replied. "Just hurry."

He stabbed the cell phone off on the operator's professional reply, as if this were just any other accident, and he unsnapped his seat belt and turned around to Rachel. The crumpled right side was against her car seat, and one arm seemed trapped between them. She was at least definitely alert and responsive. He tried to soothe her without much success, then turned his efforts back to Cuddy. She hadn't moved an inch. He reached across her, suddenly frantic to try to move the side of the car off her, even knowing it was futile. The twisted metal only laughed at him, and he barely felt a piece slice his arm. His leg was screaming at him at the angle, but he ignored it, still frantically trying to gain some space.

"Holy shit!" The voice at least pulled him back to his senses, and he turned around to see an older teen staring through the shattered window. "Are you okay? Hey, Bill, call 911!"

"Already did. She's hurt badly. I'm not sure about Rachel yet. Can you get this car away from the concrete?"

The teen gave an ineffectual tug. Of course he couldn't move the car alone. It would take emergency crews pulling the car away from the light base, then pulling the metal away from the passengers. House turned back to Cuddy as the teen's friend came running to join him. Both of them couldn't move the car either, but they did manage with difficulty to get the driver's door open. House hauled himself out, not remembering his cane, barely noticing his leg. He needed to get around to the other side. Maybe all three of them together could. . .

At that point, another participant appeared. The drunk, whose car with only front end damage had landed a bit behind Cuddy's and on through the intersection, got out and swayed with difficulty toward them. He could barely walk. "Wow." He stopped and eyed the car jammed against the light post. "Somebody had an accident."

House's fist connected with his jaw with a loud smack, and the drunk reeled backwards a step and fell. "Not nice," he slurred, looking up at them.

"Easy, man." The two teens latched onto House from either side, and Bill immediately let go, staring at his fingers. "You're bleeding."

House gave a superficial glance at his left arm, blood dripping down it, then ignored it, hobbling quickly around the car. He pushed frantically against it, trying to move it away, and the two teens quickly came to help him, but they couldn't. What ever happened to the surge of strength people were supposed to get in accidents? House shook his head. Obviously he didn't get one.

"Maybe we can pull her out through the driver's door," Bill suggested.

"No! We don't need to move her any more than we have to. I think she might have internal bleeding."

Finally, here came the ambulance from one direction, a police car from another. The drunk, still flat on his back on the pavement, set up a keening wail of injury and complaints against House. The police officer leaned over him long enough for a good whiff, then turned away in disgust, coming on to the car where the paramedics were already at work.

House stood back, watching the able-bodied and trained do what he hadn't been able to do, move the car away from the concrete base, then peel the side from it. He pushed back forward as Cuddy was finally freed. Her face was deathly pale, and she still hadn't moved. "Lisa." His tone was pleading, but she did not respond.

"Sir, you need to move back."

"I'm a doctor," he replied.

"We need to get her to the hospital. Let us lift her." Carefully, the two workers moved Cuddy out, keeping her spine and neck as immobile as possible, and placed her on the gurney. A third was extracting Rachel, who was showing impressive movement of all four extremities, as well as continued good lung volume. House tried to speak calmly to her, but he couldn't get the words out, his eyes following Cuddy. He ensured that the EMT was getting Rachel, and then he limped as quickly as he could after the gurney, moving toward the ambulance. Cuddy was loaded, and House tried to climb in after her, only to nearly fall over as his leg refused the step. The police officer boosted him in from behind. Then he was sitting in the back of the ambulance, a wailing Rachel in an EMT's arms beside him, and the door closed.

"PPTH is closest," he said suddenly. "We're both doctors there."

Rachel flopped toward him, reaching out. They had put a miniature neck collar on her, but whatever her problems - right arm, he thought - she didn't seem to have an acute spinal injury. With Cuddy already on the backboard, that was the best they could do right now. He reached out to take her, hoping to calm her down some, and the EMT noted his dripping forearm. "You're hurt yourself, sir."

"Just a scratch." House took Rachel, trying to keep her still and keep her back aligned just in case, and she did calm down somewhat in his arms. His eyes went back to Cuddy, and he barely noted the EMT applying a field dressing to his forearm.

"BP still falling," one of the paramedics stated. He pushed up her shirt, and all of the ambulance occupants except Rachel stared. A bruise was spreading along the right side of her abdomen, directly in line with the bulge of pregnancy.

(H/C)

The gurney swept through the ER door at full gallop, House limping vainly in the rear and losing ground. He heard snatches of the paramedics' report up ahead of him. ". . . female, unresponsive at the scene . . .tachycardic . . . BP falling . . . suspect intra-abdominal bleeding. . . check for head injury . . .Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House, apparently works here." An ER worker swooped in and took Rachel. House tried to put on a burst of speed as Cuddy was wheeled into a patient room, and then Cameron was alongside him.

"House! What's going on?"

"Drunk driver hit us." His eyes were blazing with a fury she had never seen, a fury stronger than anything except the fear.

Cameron raised her hand, touching the side of his face, where he was suddenly aware of stinging. "Your face is cut."

"Just from the window. Lisa is the one really hurt. Although Rachel . . . is somebody checking Rachel?"

"Yes. We need to check you out."

"I'm fine," he insisted. He limped into Cuddy's cubicle. They had already hooked up a fetal monitor, and the message it displayed was the one he had feared. Cuddy was bleeding into her abdomen, and the baby was in distress.

"Prep OR," a doctor called. "Get her in there ASAP."

Cameron stood back; Cuddy already had two doctors and several support staff around her. Instead, Cameron probed House's left arm, noting the dressing. "Did the drunk hit on her side?" she asked.

House shook his head. "My side . . . knocked the car into a light post. She and Rachel were on that side."

"House, you really ought to be . . . "

One of the doctors turned away from Cuddy. "Dr. House, she's heading into surgery, but . . . they might have to take the baby."

House stood with his body frozen but his mind racing at full throttle. 25 weeks. Far, far too early. Not impossibly early, but the best possible outcome with delivery now would be a several-month hospitalization in the NICU. And that was only the best possible outcome . . .

"Dr. House?" The doctor was calling him. "Did you hear me?"

House literally felt sick. This couldn't be happening. Everything had gone _so_ well; a drunk driver couldn't rip it all away in just a few seconds like this. The doctor was still waiting, and reluctantly, House nodded. "If we have to . . . but not unless there's no other choice."

"OR ready!" came a call. An efficient team swooped down on Cuddy, and the gurney departed her cubicle even faster than it had entered. House took two limping steps after it and stopped, painfully aware of his leg, his slowness. He was no physical help, and this was hardly a diagnostic puzzle. The best thing he could do right now was stay out of their way.

"House . . ." Cameron again, like an annoying recording at his elbow. He turned to her.

"Find me a cane from somewhere. Then I'm going up to watch the surgery."

Cameron disappeared, and House forced himself not to collapse into a nearby chair. He pulled out his cell phone.

"House, what's up? Get bored with your family night?"

"Wilson . . ." House couldn't say any more right now. The words stuck in his throat.

He didn't have to say any more. Sharp alarm surged up immediately in Wilson's voice. "House? What is it? Where are you?"

"ER . . . hospital."

"Our hospital?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right there. Hang on."

House snapped the phone shut just as Cameron reappeared with a hospital-issue cane. He gripped it tightly and started on his fastest limp to the doors through which Cuddy had disappeared. His entire mind at the moment was consumed by only four words, repeating over and over in a refrain.

_Internal bleeding . . . 25 weeks._


	16. Chapter 16

House was in the observation room over the OR, riveted to the action below. So much blood. He had known the minute they opened Cuddy's abdomen that it was bad. His hands clenched, and if the drunk driver had been in front of him at that moment, House thought he would literally have killed him.

He barely heard the door open and only turned when a hand touched his arm gently. It was Cameron, holding a first aid kit. "How's Rachel?" he asked, his eyes immediately returning to the operating table.

"Broken right arm and a few cracked ribs. She's hurting, but she'll be okay. She's been admitted and sedated; she should just sleep all night."

"Good." He flinched as the surgeon encountered yet another bleeding artery.

The loudspeaker clicked on. "House, we're taking the baby. No choice. She's never going to finish this pregnancy." The surgeon spoke over his shoulder, not even looking away from his patient. "NICU is already standing by."

House nodded, then realized that the surgeon couldn't hear him with all attention focused where it should be right then. "Okay," he said, his voice sounding almost foreign in his ears. The loudspeaker switched off. House felt absolutely numb.

Cameron eyed him, then opened the first aid kit. She hated bothering him now, but she knew that now, while he was still and focused, was likely to be her best chance. It worried her that nobody had managed a complete examination of him yet, and he had been on the side of initial impact. He seemed functional and said he was fine, but this was House, after all. She wiped the dried blood away from the lacerations on his face. They seemed fairly superficial, window glass cuts as he'd said. Car windows were designed to disintegrate under impact with the least possible damage to intervening humans. She studied the cuts, then applied antibiotic ointment.

The cut on his wrist looked much worse. Cameron removed the field dressing, which had blood seeping through it, and studied the wound. That wasn't from glass; that had been from some kind of metal, either twisted metal on his side or from him trying to free Cuddy. It would have to be stitched. She cleaned it, then reached for a bottle of lidocaine, wondering if he would even feel the sutures if she didn't supply anesthesia. He seemed oblivious to her efforts, which at least kept him still. She numbed up the edges of the laceration and was just opening the suture kit when House leaned forward slightly. "Got her," he said, followed immediately by, "God, she's tiny."

Cameron couldn't help glancing away from her own patient for a moment, looking down into the room. The baby couldn't be much more than a pound at this stage. There was no brisk slap, no cry, and nobody waited for one. The lungs were not developed enough to breathe independently; one of this baby's first impressions of the world would be a respirator. The NICU staff had already closed in with an arsenal of equipment, working frantically. The surgeon relinquished the tiny, bloodstained infant to them and returned his attention to Cuddy.

Cameron returned to her own task. She knew he would never submit to an examination right now with everything else going on unless he was fully distracted, and his arm at least needed acute attention. She worked quickly, suturing the gash, then bandaging his forearm. She probed carefully along that arm, watching for subconscious reactions. He flinched slightly at the elbow, and she rolled his sleeve on up above it for a direct inspection. Dark bruising was starting to show up, an impact injury from the crash, but on palpation, she couldn't feel any fractures. It wasn't swelling unreasonably, and when she ran the joint through a gentle range of motion, there was no crepitus and no apparent pain. His arm bones seemed intact and in alignment. Hard to be 100% certain without x-rays, but she didn't think there were any fractures. She slid her hands beneath his arm, palpating the ribs on that side. Nothing. His breathing was a bit fast, but it wasn't labored, and she put that down to the action in the OR below. His blood pressure was probably up right now, too.

Working on down, she noted that he flinched again lightly at the left thigh. No doubt some muscle bruising. He was bearing weight on it, and the only bone anywhere close to there was the femur, one of the strongest in the body and hardest to break, also very well padded by muscle normally, as it was on House's left leg, though no longer on his right. All in all, he seemed to have some bruises down the left side from the impact of the door, but the jagged gash on his wrist was worst. She took out her penlight and reached up to cup his chin. "House, look at me." He reacted with annoyance to the light in his eyes, but her initial impression was that his pupils seemed to be equal and responding. Right as she was checking them, the surgeon spoke up from below, and House twisted his head away from Cameron's light, escaping from her grasp, looking back down to Cuddy.

"House . . . we really ought to do a hysterectomy. We're having an awful time controlling bleeding, too much damage to a hypervascular area, and even if we could stop bleeding somehow and patch it up, she will never safely hold another pregnancy. It wouldn't take the stress."

House closed his eyes for a moment. Ripping out a piece of her body, as she had long ago suggested ripping out a piece of his, and for the same reason, to save a life. He still resented Stacy's decision, but at this moment, he, like Cuddy, had no choice. She would die on the table if they didn't stop the bleeding now, and what good was a uterus that was unusable? Pregnancy would never again be an option, even if by a miracle they could stop bleeding while saving the organ. The surgeon was right. "Do it," he said, and he wondered if she would hate him for this decision, resent it for years down the road. He had no choice. He wasn't taking her future children; the drunk driver already had. He could see the damage himself on the monitor screen. There really was _no_ chance for viable reproductive success.

But isn't that what Stacy always said? That there had been no chance with his leg? And hadn't he seen it differently himself? Would Cuddy understand that right now, there truly was no way around it? There really had been an option for him years ago with some chance, even if a long shot. Here there was none. She was bleeding too much right now, and her uterus, present or absent, would never again be usable.

A hand captured his and squeezed it, silent support, and he opened his eyes to meet Cameron's. "I'm sorry," she said, trying to be supportive and unwittingly picking the wrong thing to say. He flinched. She realized that the retreat was emotional, not physical, and immediately reverted to professionalism, for which he was grateful. "House, are you sure you weren't hurt anywhere else? You seem to have some bruising on your left side from the impact. Anything else? Did you hit your head? Does anything hurt?"

My heart, he thought. He looked back down at his wife on the table, vitals still dangerously unstable, and then at the doors through which they had taken his daughter, so small and fragile, not yet ready for the world some idiot's actions had forced her to enter.

"House?" Cameron was persistent. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

He shook his head. "I'm okay."

She pursed her lips, wishing she could get a thorough exam of him down in the ER under the good lights. But he did in fact seem to have come off the lightest of all of the passengers. Purely physically, that is; his eyes looked mortally wounded. She took his pulse - fast as she had expected but steady - and sighed. "Listen, if anything starts hurting when the adrenaline wears off, let somebody know, okay?" She'd try to check on him later. At least he would be in the hospital with help available if needed; it was an excellent bet that he wouldn't be leaving any time in the next few days.

The door to the observation room opened again, and in came Wilson, looking almost as much in shock as House was. "What the hell happened?" the oncologist asked.

House shook his head, still watching the battle below to save Cuddy's life. Cameron snapped her kit shut and drew Wilson slightly to the side. She spoke softly, although she wasn't sure House would notice their conversation anyway. "Drunk driver hit the car. Rachel's got a broken arm and ribs; she's sedated. Cuddy had intra-abdominal hemorrhage and extensive damage; she's still unstable. They had to take the baby." Wilson's eyes had progressively widened further at each of those statements. Cameron jerked her head at House. "He seems a little banged up but otherwise okay, but keep an eye on him. Nobody's actually gotten an official examination of him in all this, and he might not be aware of everything his body's telling him yet."

Wilson nodded. Cameron left, passing off the friendship duties to one House would accept a little more readily. Wilson went across to stand by his friend, a silent, sympathetic presence.

"They're doing a hysterectomy," House said abruptly. "Couldn't control bleeding . . . she'd never be safe for another pregnancy anyway . . . I authorized it."

Wilson touched his arm and realized too late that he had landed right on top of the dressing. House didn't even flinch. Wilson shifted his grip to an apparently uninjured area. "You had no choice," he tried to assure his friend.

"I know," House replied. "But that's what Stacy said, too."

Wilson wished Jensen were here. "House, you . . ."

The flurry of activity below suddenly doubled as Cuddy's blood pressure plummeted. Multiple lines of fluid and replacement blood were already running wide open. Both doctors above stared in grim silence, knowledge making the view even worse, as the OR team fought to stabilize the patient. When she finally started responding to their efforts again, House abruptly wobbled on his feet. Wilson grabbed a chair and moved it behind him. "Sit down," he suggested firmly. Who knew how long House had been standing there on his leg?

House dropped into the chair without protest, eyes fixed on the screen now. Wilson pulled over an adjacent chair and sat down next to him, trying to be supportive, trying to fight down his own fear.

Below them, the surgery went on.


	17. Chapter 17

An eternity and a half later, Cuddy was finally in recovery. House stood by the bedside, looking at her. She still looked deathly pale, her blood pressure still lower than he would have liked, but she was at least stable for the moment, though still critical. Several arteries had been repaired, her right kidney and some damage to the colon had been repaired, and her uterus, taking the brunt of the blow due no doubt to its prominence and ample blood supply in pregnancy, had been removed. She had a lot of healing ahead of her, and she was still receiving transfusions in recovery to help combat the massive blood loss, but she was stable for now.

Would she hate him? He shuddered and looked around for Wilson, who was predictably right behind him. "Could you stay here for a while and watch her? She shouldn't be waking up for a good while, but I don't want to leave her alone."

"Sure. Going to go check on the girls?"

Girls. Plural. He nodded, still in shock at how much had happened since that morning, since the appointment for her textbook pregnancy. Or was it yesterday morning by now? He looked at his watch. It was 3:30 a.m. She had been in surgery for several hours.

"They can do a lot in the NICU these days, House," Wilson offered. "Premies make it all the time now."

He knew that, of course, just as much as he knew that the success rate was not 100%, especially not as young as 25 weeks. Just a few more weeks would have made such a difference. His daughter, assuming she lived, would have a much longer recovery than Cuddy. "I'll be back," he said and turned abruptly away.

Wilson watched his stiff limp out of the room. The oncologist looked back at Cuddy, then at his departing friend, and he fingered his cell phone. He had been debating since he got to PPTH hours ago whether to call Jensen. His own hard-learned lessons on not making choices for his friends, not deciding single-handedly what was best for them, were running straight into his instincts. He had a feeling that House was going to need more help than he could give him. This was all too much for anyone to deal with, much less anyone with House's pre-existing history and issues regarding family. There was also House's decision during Cuddy's operation; Wilson _knew _that was going to chew him up. Of course Cuddy wouldn't hold it against him, would trust his medical assessment, but she would grieve the loss of her future potential children and be hit hard by the irrevocable end of one of her lifelong dreams, and Wilson wasn't sure House was capable of distinguishing grief from blame in this instance.

But was it Wilson's place to make that call for him? Jensen had said many times that House had to be the one to initiate therapeutic contact, that Jensen just contacting him blind wouldn't be effective. But House had never since he'd met Jensen hit as much stress as he was under tonight, and that stress showed no sign of abating for quite a while. NICUs were indeed great and getting better all the time, but Wilson knew that baby girl House was in for a medical roller coaster, even if there was success at the end of it, and Cuddy had been seriously injured and wouldn't be medically capable at first of giving her husband as much as Wilson feared he was going to need.

But still, was it Wilson's decision? Would he be stepping over the line if he called in the psychiatrist? He chewed his lip, trying to think things through.

Wait a minute. This was Friday, assuming it was after midnight, and midnight felt like it had passed by about 100 hours ago during that endless surgery. Wilson looked at his watch. Yes, this was Friday. House had an appointment with Jensen this afternoon, an appointment he definitely was not going to be keeping. Nothing would be able to drag him away from the hospital today. Wilson would just remind him gently that he needed to call Jensen to cancel, and Jensen was quite capable of fielding that fly ball and making a judgment on his own. Wilson gave a sigh, satisfied with that plan, still wishing he could do more. He turned to look at Cuddy. "You'd better get well fast," he admonished her. "You're his lifeline, and he's going to need one."

(H/C)

House stood in the darkened pediatric room, watching Rachel sleep. Her right arm was in a cast, which some well-meaning ER doctor had made bright yellow. A bright, cheerful color, as if there were anything at all positive about the need for it. Her ribs had been wrapped for support, the bandage peeping out from under her miniature hospital gown. All in all, she had come off fairly lightly, thanks to her car seat which had absorbed most of the impact. Rachel had had the protective bumper that Cuddy had not when the side of the car caved in on them as it hit the concrete. Still, seeing his little girl lying there in a hospital bed, in a cast, all bandaged up, felt like an icicle to the heart for House. He abruptly remembered all the times through his childhood that he had been taken into hospitals, the extensive roll call of injuries. Rachel was only 10 months old, and here she was already in a hospital, already injured.

He shuddered. It's not your fault, he told himself. You didn't put her here. You didn't hurt her.

But he hadn't protected her, either. He had been the one driving. Surely there was _something _he could have done differently, and as much as he tried to tell himself otherwise, part of his mind couldn't stop chewing over the wreck, like a dog refusing to give up a bone.

And Rachel's visible injuries woke a reaction much deeper in him than blame. For just a moment, he could almost feel it all again, all those times he had been in hospitals like this one as a child. The fear, the secrecy. It all closed in on him in the room, and old, long-healed injuries twinged with the ghosts of remembered pain.

House turned to leave so quickly that he nearly tripped on the pivot. He suddenly _needed _to get away from the constant reminder of the injured child. Rachel was sound asleep, drugged into rest, he told himself. She wouldn't know he hadn't been able to stay, and by tomorrow, he'd have a better grip on himself, prepare himself better to visit her, be ready to be what she needed. Just now, stressed and exhausted, he simply couldn't stand there any longer with her asleep and all of the memories waking up instead. He pushed back the mental voice calling him a coward, and he headed for the NICU to see his new daughter.

(H/C)

In a way it was better than visiting Rachel; in a way far worse. House stood next to the incubator in the NICU. He was wearing the required gown and gloves, and he wondered how many dozens of times he would have to put them on before she was allowed to go home.

Here at least were no visible injuries, unlike Rachel, but she was so tiny, almost overpowered by the weight of equipment around her, closed up in her heated box. Her skin looked almost translucent, just beginning to take on a more normal skin tone as capillaries developed. She was on the respirator, of course, and she would be fed by tube down her throat for now. He reminded himself that she lacked a gag reflex at this stage, just like she lacked a suck reflex, so tubes through her mouth would at least not trigger the immediate panic and nausea they did in a fully developed patient.

House ran over the statistics in his mind. About 65% of babies this early would survive in the NICU, although they had a rocky road ahead. Most who did not survive died within the first 48 hours. For those outliving that period, there was a "honeymoon" period of about the first week, where things often seem to be stable, and then most of them get worse, complications starting to become more apparent. This baby would almost certainly become worse before she ever became better. She would need the respirator for several weeks and transfusions, as well. Looming on the horizon were most likely intraventricular hemorrhage, infections, bradycardia, apnea, retinopathy of prematurity, and a whole other shopping list of gifts given to his daughter by some irresponsible idiot. The severity of the probable intraventricular hemorrhage would have a lot to say about any future long-term functional defects.

House's fists clenched again at his sides. Yes, he had drunk excessively himself at times, but he had been careful to avoid getting behind the wheel when impaired. The man at the crash scene hadn't even been able to walk straight, far over the limit. House made a mental note to talk to the police, who would probably be wanting to talk to him anyway. He wanted the book thrown at the man. Not that it was going to make much difference for his family.

"She's doing very well so far, Dr. House," one of the nurses commented, coming up alongside him tentatively. She had been warned of Dr. House, although hadn't had direct contact with him. He'd been advertised to be eccentric and hard to handle, but right now, he looked like any parent she had seen, and in fact, he looked worse than most of them. He looked utterly worn out and in shock, nearly ready for a hospital bed himself. She reminded herself that his wife, the Dean of Medicine, had been badly hurt, too. The whole hospital was buzzing with sympathy and anger on their behalf tonight. She suddenly wanted to encourage him; he looked like he badly needed it.

House swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth, but his voice still sounded hoarse. "How much did she weigh?"

"One pound, six ounces."

He nodded. About what he had expected. At least 5 times less than what she should have weighed in a normal pregnancy. So very little.

"What is her name?" the nurse asked, slightly emboldened by the fact that he hadn't bitten her head off yet.

"We . . ." House hesitated. He and Cuddy had had many conversations on that topic, and he had never been able to express a serious preference. He knew it was ridiculous to think that the act of naming someone forecasts their future, but part of him was afraid of picking wrong, afraid of sending his child out on the track of life misnamed, as if unhappiness was bound to come of that. Cuddy had been gently supportive, never pushing him past comfort, but never quite letting the subject drop, either. Still, she wanted his input, and she had refused to do what he'd urged her to many times, just pick out a name herself and tell him what it would be. Thus, the choice was still up in the air. They had thought, of course, that they had more time.

"It helps them, we think, to have a specific identity, even at this stage. Something to call them. We try to talk to them as much as we can, of course." The nurse was trying to sort out the expressions warring on his face. Not just lack of a choice, but she wasn't sure what else there was.

"We hadn't picked one yet," House said softly. "I'll . . . I'll have to talk to my wife." He stared at the tiny baby in the incubator, and then he spoke to her directly. "I'm sorry, girl. I'm sorry for everything." He turned quickly and limped out of the NICU, and the nurse looked after him. Somehow, Dr. House was not at all what she'd been prepared for.

(H/C)

Wilson was fighting not to drift off to sleep when House returned. Cuddy had been moved to a private room; she was still out. "Go up to your office and get some sleep," House advised, shaking his shoulder.

"You need to . . ."

House sliced straight across his protest. "I'm staying with her. She hasn't even woken up yet."

Wilson eyed him, once again thinking he wasn't standing quite right, as if both legs, not just the right one, were hurting. "Did you hurt your leg in the crash?"

"Nope. I'm fine." House took the chair as Wilson vacated it.

Wilson sighed, looking at him. The shallow glass nicks on the side of his face, his bloodshot eyes, his paleness, and his stiff posture all added up to a picture far from fine. He looked, in fact, like he had seen a ghost and lost a battle with it. "Have you had your meds?"

"I'm not taking the sleeping pill right now. You've got to be kidding. And if you try to slip one to me . . ."

Wilson spread his hands, placating. "Actually, I meant the painkillers. You probably took everything before you guys had dinner, but have you had the Vicodin since?" He would have been long overdue for a night time dose and not far off the breakfast one at this point.

House looked surprised, considering it. "Don't think so." He pulled out the Vicodin, gulped two dry, and returned the bottle to his pocket. He was still wearing the bloodstained shirt with blood on the left sleeve, and Wilson made a mental note to bring him some fresh clothes. "Okay, now I've had it. Satisfied? Go up to your office and get some sleep; you were about to fall out of this chair." Wilson still hesitated, and House's tone changed. "I'd . . . I'd rather talk to her alone when she wakes up."

The oncologist relented. "Okay, I'll leave for a few hours, but I'm coming back with breakfast."

"She won't feel like eating at first. Have to ease back into it over a day or two."

"I actually meant for you." Wilson took a step away, then turned back again. House didn't look _right_. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he couldn't shake the impression. On the other hand, who on earth would look right after the events of last night? "I'll have the cell phone. Call me if you need anything. Oh, one more thing. It's Friday now."

"Usually follows Thursday."

"I was just thinking, you've got an appointment with Jensen. Remember to call and cancel it."

House nodded. "Good idea. But not at -" he looked at his watch - "5:00 a.m. I'll do it a little later."

Wilson gave up for the moment and left the room. House studied Cuddy's vitals - still not good, but still stable, temperature not up yet, although they'd have to watch for infection. With a sigh, he picked up her hand and held it, waiting for her to wake up so he could confess his decision.


	18. Chapter 18

Cuddy slowly and with difficulty climbed the tunnel to consciousness. She felt weaker than she ever had in her life, and painkillers and the remnants of anesthesia clouded her brain, but her first conscious thought was that something was wrong. She couldn't quite remember what at first, but she knew something was badly wrong. If only she could remember what she should be doing about it.

"Lisa." His voice was the first certainty in the billowing clouds of questions. She hooked her thoughts onto it and tried to head toward him. "Lisa. Can you hear me?"

"Mmmphf." Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.

"Can you open your eyes?"

Could she? She wasn't sure she even had the strength for that. With an effort, she pried the lids apart. The first sight she fastened onto was House, and he looked so bad that her worry about that unspecified sense of wrongness immediately doubled. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, his face pale, and he looked like he hadn't slept in far too long. There were slight cuts on the side of his face, too. She tried to lift her hand to explore them, but her arm barely cleared the pillow. He immediately, though gently, captured her wrist, and her eyes widened with alarm as she realized that the unbuttoned sleeve of his shirt was bloodstained and that there was a dressing around his left forearm beneath it. "You're hurt," she managed.

House tracked her gaze. "Oh, just a scratch. It's nothing. Do you remember what happened to us?"

To _us_? To all of them? She realized now that she was in a hospital bed, and she recognized PPTH, but the reason hovered just outside her reach momentarily.

"We went out to eat," House started.

She nodded. "To celebrate."

He flinched. "Right. After we left, we were driving home."

She smiled, the vague memories coalescing. "For dessert." Her smile froze and fell away as the next memory surged in. "Oh my God. We were hit."

"Some drunk idiot. The car apparently tossed you and Rachel into a light post."

"Rachel! Is she . . ." Cuddy tried to sit up and barely started to succeed when a blinding wave of pain across her abdomen knocked her back. House put his hands on her shoulders, keeping her there.

"Don't try to move. You were hurt badly; you've had hours of abdominal surgery. Rachel has a broken arm and a few cracked ribs. She'll be okay."

Abdominal surgery. "What about the baby?" Her hands clawed toward her abdomen, and he captured them gently and pulled them away but not before she felt the heavy dressing - and the lack of the prominent bulge. "Oh, God. Greg, what about the baby?"

"They had to deliver her. They had no choice; you had uterine damage, and the placenta had mostly separated. She's in the NICU. She's doing as well as she can be at this stage."

Cuddy closed her eyes. "She's too little."

"She's got a chance. A good chance, although she'll be in there for months." He tried to think of something, anything to say that would comfort her, would slow down her rising heart rate. "I saw her a little while ago."

She smiled faintly. "What does she look like?"

Almost more equipment than skin at this stage. "She looks like a fighter." He touched her hand. "You know how good the NICU is, Lisa. We have a chance."

She blinked back the tears. She knew he was right, but she had seen the charts herself. She knew what their daughter was in for. The only fast exit for an extreme premie from the NICU was the one no parent wanted; otherwise, it was a months-long uphill battle. She tightened her grip on him, moving to capture his hand in both of hers, and she once again felt that dressing on his wrist. "Are you okay, Greg?" She opened her eyes, studying him. He looked awful.

"Just a few nicks and bruises. And Rachel is sleeping now, but she's going to be fine. You were the one hurt the worst."

She tilted her head slightly, looking toward her abdomen. "Internal bleeding? How bad was the damage?" She felt his mental retreat. "Greg, tell me. How bad was it?"

"You lost a massive amount of blood. That's why you're so weak; they were pumping replacement in as fast as they could, but we were afraid you'd bleed out before they got everything under control. Damage to several arteries. You also had injuries to your colon, your right kidney . . .and your uterus." He took a deep breath. "The uterus was worst, and they ended up having to do a hysterectomy." He saw the dawning realization on her face. "I authorized it. I'm sorry."

Tears welled up as she realized what lay ahead - or rather didn't. After all the battles with her body for children, it was finally over. She could _never _try again. There were no more chances, no more hopefully blue-eyed children with him besides their daughter who was fighting down in the NICU. Never again. The words pounded through her brain like a sentence, all of it processing in a flash as soon as he said hysterectomy, and she never actually heard his following two short sentences.

House saw it all flash across her face. He wanted to close his eyes to avoid seeing her pain, and he forced himself to leave them open. He tightened his grip on her hand, determined to be there, even if, as he had, she railed and cursed at him. He would not leave.

She felt the increased pressure, the first thing she registered outside her thoughts beyond the word hysterectomy. She looked at him. "Greg . . . we can't ever have any more. _Ever._" At least he was there to grieve the loss with her.

He flinched, hearing it as a condemnation. "I know," he apologized, then broke off. He could defend himself, could say there was no choice, but it wouldn't make any difference. He would accept the resentment in silence, but he would not leave. She was openly crying now, and he reached out to wipe the tears away. Amazingly, she did not pull away from him, and he marveled at how much better she dealt with betrayal than he had. He stood and leaned over the bed tentatively, trying to hold her without hurting her incision, and she turned into him, crying against his shirt as he rubbed slow circles on her opposite shoulder. Finally, worn out with blood loss, drugs, and emotion, she fell asleep again.

He carefully repositioned her, limped to the bathroom for a washcloth, and wiped the tears from her face. She was solidly out. She would probably sleep a good bit the first few days as her body fought to begin to heal. He shook his head, wishing he had had any other choice. He didn't blame her for resenting it. He had reacted far worse himself. At least she hadn't sent him from the room, as he had Stacy.

"Breakfast!" Wilson's voice was overly bright behind him, and House turned to face his friend. Wilson studied his red-rimmed eyes and toned down the encouragement about three notches on the dial. "Has she woken up?"

"Yes."

"You told her?"

House nodded. "Everything."

"How did she take it?"

"She was devastated. What did you expect?" House started out the door. "Since you're here for a few minutes, I need to go check on Rachel again."

"Wait a minute. I brought breakfast first." Wilson indicated the tray he carried. "My macademia nut pancakes. I went home and made them."

House shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"You've got to eat, and you also need your meds, half of which you're supposed to be taking with food. Do you want me to wake her up and call in reinforcements?"

"You wouldn't dare," House replied, and his icy blue eyes widened as Wilson put down the tray on the bedside table and reached over the rails toward Cuddy's arm. "Hold it! She needs to rest."

"Then eat it."

House sighed, and Wilson did his best to look serious, which he actually was. He knew House wasn't going to pay attention to himself in all this, and the man already looked beyond exhausted. Wilson had given himself an assignment to make sure his friend kept eating and taking his meds on schedule during this crisis. Besides, judging from the stiffness with which he was moving - definitely something off about that left leg, although not majorly - House badly needed the anti-inflammatories. He just, as Cameron had said, wasn't aware of everything his body was telling him yet, so Wilson had to be. The oncologist was trying to respect the rules, and he hadn't called Jensen after all, but basic medical common sense applied here. "Sit down and eat, House. And take your meds."

House grumbled something under his breath that sounded like a Japanese curse, but he sat down and started on the plate of pancakes. After two bites, he pulled out the bottles from his pocket and took a complete round of painkillers and omeprazole. Wilson stood at the foot of the bed watching him. House wasn't showing much appreciation for the pancakes, but at least he was eating. He still looked in shock, his blue eyes haunted. "By the way, did you call Jensen to cancel?"

"Not yet." House glanced at his watch and then flipped open his cell phone. "He might be in his first appointment by now. I'll just call the secretary." He fished through his list of numbers, then dialed. "Yes, this is Dr. House. I'm not going to make it to my appointment today because of a family emergency. . . no, let's not reschedule. Next week is probably out, too . . . in fact, why don't we just suspend them entirely at the moment? I'll call back some time later when I get a chance. Thank you." He clicked the phone shut.

That ought to do it, Wilson thought, imagining Jensen's impassive features getting a workout as he read that message. The cavalry should be heading in at full gallop in just a few minutes.

House had just finished forcing down his pancakes fifteen minutes later and was heading out of the room when his cell phone rang, and he pulled it out and glanced at it. It was Jensen. House sighed, considered, then answered. Wilson, left behind sitting beside Cuddy, willingly mentally handed this whole mess over into more capable hands. He would try to watch House physically, but he knew that psychologically, he was already way out of his depth. At least the diagnostician had answered the phone. House limped off, talking softly, probably heading for some private corner, and Wilson looked over at Cuddy and sighed.

It wasn't yet 24 hours since the obstetrician's appointment yesterday.


	19. Chapter 19

House pulled out the cell phone and looked at it. Jensen. He sighed. Wasn't his message clear enough? Too much was going on right now to stop to talk about it, but he found his fingers still reaching for the button, even as his mind decided against it.

"Hello."

"Dr. House? I just got your message from Janice, and I was concerned. Are you all right?"

House looked around the hospital. He should be here working, as should Cuddy. They shouldn't have the roles of patient and family in this familiar place. Their daughters shouldn't be in their respective hospital beds in other wings.

"Dr. House?" Jensen was persistent.

"I'm okay, but everybody else . . ." He could feel his breathing accelerating just thinking about that drunk driver again. If the baby died, he wanted him up for murder. Not manslaughter, but murder. He wasn't sure if that was possible, would have to look up the laws, but manslaughter was too easy an out for someone who had voluntarily picked up the glass and then picked up the car keys. Premeditated stupidity.

"What happened?" He heard the honest concern in Jensen's voice. The psychiatrist wasn't on a professional fact-finding expedition - not totally anyway. He really was worried about them.

"We . . . hang on a minute, okay? Let me get somewhere private." He couldn't tell the story of last night in the middle of the bustling morning shift change at the hospital. A page sounded overhead. Nurses were entering notes on charts, doctors were giving orders and seeing patients. How could it possibly all look so normal? House limped to the nearest elevator and took it to the fourth floor, heading for the haven of his office. He was suddenly grateful beyond reason that Jensen didn't try to keep talking, simply waited, still there, but giving House the time to retreat that he needed. House didn't want to talk about the current crisis in front of the elevator crowd, but he was incapable of talking about anything else, and Jensen sensed it and let the conversation totally stall.

House entered his office, and four heads looked up from intent discussion around the conference table in the next room. They obviously had heard. Even Foreman looked vaguely sympathetic. House walked over to the intervening wall and pulled the blinds, its own clear message, then pulled the blinds over the main door, too. Finally, he stretched out in his Eames chair, grunting slightly as stiff muscles protested. He definitely had a few bangs from last night, he thought, but nothing like the injuries to the others. Finally settled, he picked up the phone. He didn't bother to ask if Jensen was still there, just dove straight into it. "We went out to eat last night, all of us . . . to celebrate." His voice gave a bitter twist on the word. "Lisa had an appointment yesterday morning, and it was all going so well." Not quite 24 hours ago, it was all going so well. How could catastrophe hit so quickly? His voice trailed off.

Jensen gave him a moment, then prompted gently. "What happened?" He hadn't missed the fact that House for the first time ever had referred to Cuddy by her first name in their conversations, and a cold knot of fear tied itself in his stomach. House was so much more than just a patient to him by this point.

"Some drunk idiot decided to drive. He couldn't even walk straight." Red hot fury was rising in House's voice again just thinking about it. "He hit the car and tossed it across an intersection into the concrete base of a light post. Lisa and Rachel were on that side. She . . . she had massive intra-abdominal bleeding, several arteries damaged. They had to take the baby."

Jensen felt a surge of anger himself against the driver, but he kept his voice perfectly steady. He could hear how tightly wound House was right now, and he thought House was only talking to him because he was so familiar by now, so hard to rattle. House was looking for some firm anchor, and Cuddy, his main one, was unavailable. "How many weeks?" he asked.

"25. There's a chance. NICU is great these days." House drifted off into silence for a second. "But it's not going to be easy. Best case scenario is months in there."

"What about the surgery? Was she stabilized?"

"Yes, eventually. There was a lot of damage. She nearly bled out, but she's stable now, although still critical. I . . . I had to tell them to do a hysterectomy."

Jensen flinched, immediately seeing the multiple facets of that one. He left it unmined for the moment. House needed to tell the story first, wasn't quite ready to explore it. "What about Rachel?"

"She's a lot better than Lisa, even though she was on the same side. She had the car seat. She has a broken right arm and a few cracked ribs. They sedated her last night; I was just going back down to see her longer when you called."

Longer. There was something there, Jensen thought, as if somehow he felt his first visit had been too short. Something more than just crises calling him off elsewhere. Once again, he left it alone for the moment, to be returned to as opportunity presented. Get the facts set before digging into feelings. House always responded best that way. "What about yourself?"

"Me?"

"You were driving, correct? Was the car struck in the back, front, side?"

"Side. He hit across the driver's back door and part of the front, and that apparently knocked us airborne and across into the post."

"Apparently?" Jensen grasped onto that. "Don't you remember?"

"Of course I remember, but it was all happening so fast. It took me a minute to sort it all out after everything was over."

"So the other car's front end, the left side of it anyway, would have struck the door immediately next to you."

"Right. But it was the traffic post on the other side, or the concrete base of it, that did more damage."

"Could you open your door afterward to get out?"

"Not at first. There were two kids who stopped to help, and they managed to wrestle it open." House leaned back in the Eames chair, rubbing his leg lightly. It was oddly comforting to discuss the facts of last night in a straightforward manner with Jensen. It did nothing for his anger against the drunk, but it helped steady him somehow to work through the process of the wreck. Odd.

"So there was damage to the driver's side door?"

"Yes. Not near as much as the other side, but yes."

"And you were immediately next to that door. So once again, what about yourself? Did you have any injuries?"

The process of lead-up, going through the mechanics of the crash rather than a simple question, made House actually consider it for the first time. "I . . . I've got some bruises, I think." He stretched in the chair, gauging. "Kind of stiff on that side, leg worse than the arm, although everything is working. I cut my left wrist, but that wasn't at impact; that was when I was trying to push the other side of the car off of Lisa." He snorted. "You ever read about that surge of superhuman strength that people get in an accident or when their loved ones are in danger? Obviously, I missed the sign-up."

Jensen again let it pass for the moment. House wasn't quite ready to talk about how he felt about the accident, although getting closer, and Jensen was still trying to make sure that House himself was in fact all right. "Did you get checked out in the ER?"

"I . . . they took Lisa to surgery almost immediately. I went along to watch. But one of the ER doctors chased me down up in the observation room and checked me out. She stitched up my wrist."

Jensen frowned slightly. A few stitches applied in an OR observation room to a temporarily not-moving target didn't really count as a full exam. "But you haven't had a formal exam? X-rays? Anything?"

An edge of impatience became audible in House's tone. "No, but the left leg is what hurts worst, and I've been walking around on it for 12 hours so far and haven't fallen over yet. It's just muscle bruising."

"Dr. House, I want you to do something for me as a favor. Okay?"

"No, I am not going down to the ER. Everybody else needs me. In fact, I ought to be visiting Rachel right now."

"Everybody else needs you healthy. The ER would be best, but at the least, let Dr. Wilson examine you for any other injuries. Adrenaline can block the body's feedback; it is possible for someone to be hurt and not realize it." Jensen felt House's reluctance. He didn't want to take the time out for it. "Have you ever encountered cases of that medically?"

"Of course."

"So there is no reason why it couldn't medically happen to you, thinking about it logically." Jensen knew he could get House on that logically.

House sighed. "I'll let Wilson look me over. But it's just bruises."

"Down to the next point, you said you had been walking around on your bruised leg for 12 hours. Did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"Would you have?" House was definitely getting annoyed with this line of questioning.

"Probably not. Last night was perfectly understandable, but try to let yourself rest at intervals today as you get a chance. Maybe while everybody else is sleeping."

House's voice got softer suddenly. "I'll try. Lisa might kick me out anyway."

There it was, for the first time in this conversation, a tentative invitation to explore his feelings. Even if it was just out of annoyance with the physical conversation, Jensen took advantage of it. "Why should she do that?"

"She hates me."

"That's not the impression I got at your wedding."

"I mean now. I gave them permission last night to do the hysterectomy. I . . . I _took _a piece of her. A piece she still wanted."

"You said earlier that she almost bled out. Was there any choice medically at that time?"

"No. I know there wasn't, but . . . that's what Stacy always said. And I disagreed with her."

"This isn't Stacy, and it isn't 10 years ago. Don't overproject. In _this _acute medical crisis, was there any other way?"

"No. They couldn't control bleeding, and she never would have carried another pregnancy anyway."

"As a doctor, she will understand that. As a woman, she will grieve, but grief is _not _blame. Has she regained consciousness yet? Have you told her?"

"Yes."

"And what was her reaction?"

"She broke down crying and said we could never have any more. She was blaming me. I could tell there was resentment."

Jensen, for far from the first time, abruptly felt an impulse to shake House in an effort to knock some sense and perspective into him. Not a hint of that showed in his voice. "You have difficulty recognizing and understanding grief, which isn't surprising because you've not had much, if any, opportunity for normal grief in your life. Please, Dr. House, don't jump to conclusions about her feelings. She was just waking up from major surgery, I'm sure she's still weak from blood loss, she's no doubt on several strong medications right now, and she had just found out about a devastating crash involving her entire family. Learning of a hysterectomy right on top of that would make _any _woman break down crying. It's a healthy response. It doesn't mean she was blaming you; in fact, she probably was glad of your presence. Grief, _normal _grief, wants to be shared."

"She said we couldn't have any more," House insisted.

"Which is a sentence capable of many interpretations, and again, keep in mind her physical condition when she said it. Please don't jump to conclusions. I realize how deeply this decision hit you, but this _is not _the same as your leg surgery, where you had your specific wishes in that crisis expressed beforehand. It isn't history repeated. Give it a chance to be what it is, on its own, without projecting."

House sighed. "I . . . maybe." He looked at his watch. "I really need to go check on Rachel. She'll be awake now, and I ran out on her last night."

"Why?" Jensen asked. House wouldn't have added that fact if he didn't at least subconsciously want to be asked at this point.

"I . . . it was just _hard_ seeing her with the cast, with her ribs bandaged up. I know I didn't hurt her; don't bother pointing that out. But it just . . . reminded me of everything."

"Perfectly understandable," Jensen said. "And you didn't run out on her. If you were running out, you wouldn't be in a hurry to go back. Actually, I think it sounds like you have dealt with a horrific night very well, all things considered."

House absorbed the comment for a moment before the expected deflection. "I really have to go . . . they need me."

"I understand. Remember to let Dr. Wilson look you over when you get a chance. Also, I understand that you can't make your appointment today. We'll just suspend them until things settle down, like you asked, but would it be all right if I called you later on to check on everybody? I do care - about all of you. May I do that?"

"Okay."

"And remember, you can call me. Anytime, it doesn't matter when. Please, call me if you need to talk."

"I . . . I will. Thanks."

House clicked the phone off and sat in the Eames chair for a moment, letting his eyes fall shut. They felt hot and dry, like they had been propped open too long, and he could feel the exhaustion weighing him down. He knew Jensen was right; he probably did need to grab a nap at some point today to stay functional. Not right now, though. He had to see Rachel and the baby. He climbed out of the comfortable chair, wincing, and exited the office.


	20. Chapter 20

House walked into pediatrics, heading for Rachel. She should be awake now. He stopped at the door, seeing that she was indeed awake, being held and fed by an aide. The child saw him and gave a happy chortle, stretching out both arms toward him. "Dada!"

It was like a kick in the gut to House. That cast. He could not get his eyes off that cast or the bandage visible around her ribs. Old memories crowded in, and he shook his head to clear it. Get a grip, House, he told himself. You're going to scare her. The past is over.

There was no fear in her eyes, but there was starting to be confusion. Rachel stretched out her arms again toward her father, who was for some reason standing like a statue in the door of the room. "Dada?"

House gave himself a mental kick and moved forward. "Hi, Rachel." He reached out to take her but flinched as he took the weight. His left leg didn't like that much.

The aide immediately got up from the bedside chair. "You can take the chair, Dr. House. We were just having breakfast, weren't we, Rachel?"

House sat down, arranging her carefully to avoid pressure on his bad leg, and took over duties on the bowl of baby cereal. "How's she doing?"

"She seems just fine. Of course, we're got her on pretty good painkillers, so she shouldn't be feeling much. She's sure glad to see you, though."

Rachel was indeed glad to see him, reaching out lightly to catch his shirt between her fingers. She used the right arm with the cast, and House felt his eyes drawn almost magnetically toward it again. He wrenched them away to meet her trusting eyes. "Are you feeling okay, kid?"

"Dada," she replied happily.

He spooned another mouthful of cereal into her. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I wish we could have ended last night differently."

He hadn't deliberately picked the words, hadn't realized until he said them. He would never use those words voluntarily, but hearing himself tell Rachel he was sorry suddenly reminded him that he had said the same thing to Cuddy when telling her about the hysterectomy, and she hadn't even reacted. Normally, she would object to his subconscious blame or would try to reassure him whenever they slipped out. This time, she hadn't said a word. He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of that absurdly happy yellow cast, trying to remember Jensen's advice and not judge Cuddy's feelings without more data. But he couldn't think of a single other time he'd used the phrase without reaction since Cuddy had discovered what it actually meant to him.

"Dr. House?" The aide. He opened his eyes. "Are you all right?" She was eying him with a worried expression.

"Just tired," he told her. "Long night. Listen, can you keep Rachel entertained for a while? I know she can probably be discharged soon, but her mother and sister are nowhere close to going home. I need to go check on the baby again, and I can't take Rachel in there. I'm going to have to make some kind of arrangements to help out with Rachel. I don't want to leave yet myself, and it's easier to have her here right now."

"No problem. We were just about ready for morning cartoons for the younger ones. We have a lot of toys and distractions for the ones feeling well enough to not want to be here."

"And to think I'll miss it," he joked feebly. He gave Rachel the last bite of cereal, then bent to kiss her, trying not to look at the cast. "I'll be back, kid. I promise."

He heard her cry briefly as he left, then heard the aide soothing her, and he tried to convince himself that he wasn't relieved to be leaving, but his tension did indeed drop as he left pediatrics, and the memories withdrew. What on earth was wrong with him? Rachel was dealing with the cast fine; he was the one making an issue out of it. He had thought in the small hours of this morning that it was due to being there in the ghostly quiet of third shift, but his reaction was just as strong in the daylight and full activity.

Rachel. He considered options. He couldn't deal with Cuddy's recovery and with Rachel full time, too, not to mention that his job would eventually intervene, even when Cuddy was still on medical leave. They would need someone to share duties, a pass-off system. He'd better call the nanny - or the parents. He sighed, remembering yet another difficulty. He would have to call his mother and her parents to notify them of the accident and of their unnamed granddaughter's birth. Robert Cuddy had just had hip replacement surgery at the beginning of this week - ironically timing it to get recovery and rehab out of the way before the grandbaby visits that should have come next year. But Susan would probably come, and Blythe. Blythe still had too many balance issues of her own to take a shift with Rachel, but maybe between himself, Susan, and the nanny, they could hit all bases.

He was surprised to find himself at NICU putting on yellow scrubs, having arrived there on autopilot while thinking about child care strategies. He sighed, wishing that there were any prospect at all of this new child needing child care strategies from them any time in the near future.

His daughter looked about the same as last night, tiny and still, hooked up to machinery. He asked one of the nurses for an update and was told she was doing as well as could be expected. They'd had some sudden desaturations and had to modify settings on the respirator a few times, but that was a factor they could expect to be dealing with for many weeks. She was holding on. "Don't you dare die," he urged her softly. "Keep fighting for it."

As a last thought, just as he was about to leave NICU, he took out his cell phone and took a picture of her to show to Cuddy. Impossible to get a picture that didn't have equipment sprouting from one side or the other, but at least Cuddy could see their baby. With a final, lingering look for himself, he turned to leave.

(H/C)

Wilson had sat in Cuddy's room for what seemed like forever, eavesdropping in his imagination on Jensen and House. He wished he could hear their conversation, but he was grateful that he didn't have to be the only one propping his friend up at the moment.

Cuddy groaned slightly and moved, and he turned to her. "Cuddy?" Although she was technically hyphenated now, most of the hospital still called her by the familiar name, which neither she nor House minded. "Are you awake?"

The eyes opened slowly. They looked weaker than Wilson had ever seen them, most of her fire and strength bled out of her, and he realized anew how much recovery she had ahead of her. The eyes fastened on him, moved past him, and searched the room. "He went to visit Rachel and the baby," Wilson supplied. He left out Jensen's call, realizing that she needed to focus on healing right now, not worrying more than could be helped about her stressed-out husband. She was still in the very acute phases of recovery. He would tell her about House's fears of Stacy Part Two, but later. She clearly was barely up to opening her eyes right now.

"Is he okay?" she asked.

God, she sounded weak. "Just some bruises. I'm keeping an eye on him. You don't have to worry." She winced, one hand going toward her abdomen. "Are your pain meds wearing off?"

That was one way to describe it. She felt like a hungry animal was ripping out her abdominal contents one mouthful at a time. She settled for nodding.

Wilson hit the button. "We need more pain meds in here," he called.

"I wanted to see him." She grimaced again.

"Believe me, Cuddy, you're going to have plenty of opportunity. He's been going between your room, Rachel's, and NICU all night, and I have a feeling he'll be circling that track for the next several days. Don't fight the pain just to stay awake for him. You need to rest, and he'll be here later."

A nurse came in at that point with a syringe, and Cuddy reluctantly nodded. She wondered if this was what Greg's leg felt like in bad cramps. The pain was nearly alive, and it was difficult to think about anything else. The nurse injected the IV line, and Cuddy felt relief starting to sweep through her. She could literally track it, it seemed, from the line, through her arm, into her body. The hungry animal retreated a bit, leaving room for one of Wilson's comments to register. "He was here all night? He didn't sleep?"

"I'll make sure he sleeps at some point. There was just too much going on last night. He wanted to be there for you when you woke up."

She smiled sleepily. The drugs were pulling her back down. "He needs . . . to rest."

"I'm keeping an eye on him, I promise. Just rest and get better yourself, okay?"

Right then, House limped into the room. Cuddy's eyelids were being dragged down, but even drugged, she registered the fact that he looked utterly wrung out. "Greg," she whispered as sleep claimed her, "go home." Her eyelids fell.

House flinched. He hadn't even made it all the way to her bed before she asked him to leave. He tried to remember Jensen's advice, but the words hurt.

Wilson stood up and went over to him, reading the thoughts on his face. "She was just telling you to get some rest, you idiot. She wasn't telling you to get lost."

The blue eyes still looked wounded. House studied her, then the monitor screens. "Did they just give her another dose of morphine?"

"Yes. She ought to be sleeping for a while. Which, by the way, you need to do yourself. You look about ready to fall over."

"Long night. While we've got a chance, though, I told Jensen I'd let you look at me and make sure the bruises down my left side are just bruises, which I'm sure they are."

Wilson blinked. How on earth did Jensen do things like that? He had an utterly amazing knack for getting House to cooperate with him, even on issues where Wilson would have been banging his head against a wall. "Um, yeah, right. Good idea. Actually, I brought you some fresh clothes that don't have bloodstains as part of the design." He reached down for a duffel bag. "Maybe you could take a shower after I check you out, then it'll be close enough to lunch time, and then you can grab a nap." He saw House's eyes return to Cuddy. "You can sleep here if you want, but she's going to be out for several hours on that dose. Your chair is more comfortable."

House sighed, then nodded. "I need to call the parents, too. Might get a nap first." He felt incapable of talking to them right now.

"Come on," Wilson suggested, picking up the duffel bag. "Let's go to the showers, and I'll look at the bruises. Is that what's wrong with your left leg?"

House nodded. "Car door, I think. It's okay. Just stiff."

They left the room. "How's Rachel?"

"Feeling a lot better. On meds, she hardly knows she's hurt."

"And . . . did you guys ever pick a name for the baby?"

"Not yet." House's shoulder twitched impatiently, and Wilson backed off. He knew House and Cuddy had been name debating for months with no firm decision.

House limped on toward the showers while Wilson, faster, darted up to his office for a few supplies, then met his friend there. He would have rather used an exam room in the clinic, but the clinic was in the middle of rush hour right now, and House did need to shower and change clothes anyway. This would work. House was already removing his shirt when Wilson came in, and they both eyed Cameron's neat dressing. "Just go ahead and get it wet; I'll change it when you come out," Wilson said. House had bruises on his elbow, too, but it was the leg that made them both stop and stare when House dropped his jeans.

Wilson whistled. "You can't tell me you can't feel that."

House studied the leg. "Seriously, it doesn't feel half as bad as it looks." His left thigh had a dark bruise extending most of its length, with a slightly different colored center that with eerie accuracy marked out the arm rest of the driver's door. It had been jammed into his leg at the moment of impact. House stood wearing just his boxers while Wilson carefully palpated the left leg, then knelt to check the distal pulses.

"I think it's just badly bruised, but I want to get an x-ray just to be sure. And a Doppler of the veins." Wilson half expected a protest, but House just nodded. What was Jensen's secret? Wilson inspected the elbow, cycling it through a range of motion, and then looked at the superficial window glass cuts. He carefully looked House over, but nothing else jumped out at him. "Is anything else hurting? Take a minute and actually think about it." On the other hand, this was the man who called that purple left thigh a little stiff.

House shook his head. "Leg, mostly. The arm some. The cut Cameron stitched up stings a little. I think the fact that there was nothing else on the other side of the car but air at the time he hit made it less severe on the driver's side. He knocked the car out of the way almost as soon as he hit. Not like the concrete post; we were knocked _into _that, not away from it.

Wilson took a walk around, looking for any other visible injuries, but there was nothing else except the old scar on the right leg. He stepped back. "Go take a shower, and we'll redress the wrist after that. And then we'll stop by Radiology on the way up to your office."

The shower and clean clothes made House feel a little better. The wrist looked like a pretty bad gash under the lights, but Cameron's stitches were holding. Wilson applied more antibiotic ointment and a fresh dressing, and then on the way to Diagnostics, they stopped for x-rays of the femur and elbow, Wilson adding the elbow at the last moment, as well as a Doppler of the deep veins. The leg was badly bruised, but nothing was broken, and blood flow was good. Up in House's office, Wilson produced a sandwich for each of them and made sure House finished it and took another round of all of pain meds - the anti-inflammatories would be even more needed at the moment. Finally, the oncologist withdrew, leaving House with instructions to catch a few hours' sleep.

House stretched out in the Eames chair. He didn't want to take a sleeping pill even on the half dose in case he needed to wake up in a hurry, but he thought he was tired enough to drop off quickly anyway. The office was pleasantly dark with the blinds drawn, and he tried to shut off his mind. He had to call the parents in a little bit. He pulled up the picture of his daughter on his cell phone, the picture he hadn't had a chance yet to show to Cuddy, and he smiled at her for a while, but then worry about Cuddy's reaction pushed back in. His thoughts restlessly chased themselves from her to Rachel and back again, and when he finally did fall asleep, they continued to chase themselves restlessly through dreams, not nightmares of his father this time, but dreams of endless car crashes where his family was pulled away from him while he was powerless to save them.


	21. Chapter 21

After Wilson left House's office, he stuck his head in the conference room next door. The team, doing either chart work or crossword puzzles, looked up. "He's trying to catch some sleep; he never got any last night," Wilson said in a low voice. "Keep it down, and try not to bother him for anything."

"Is he okay?" Kutner asked softly, with a worried look at the closed blinds.

"I don't think anybody would be, but he's holding up about as well as could be expected."

"What about Cuddy?" Taub asked.

"She's very weak. She nearly bled out on the table. She should be okay in time, but she needs her rest right now."

"And the baby?"

"Hanging on." Wilson turned to leave, and Kutner stopped him.

"House isn't walking right. Are you sure he's okay?"

"I just looked him over. His left leg was badly bruised in the crash, and the right one can't take over to compensate. No fracture and no clots, though. I'm sure it is hard to walk on, but he ought to use it as much as he can, keep it from stiffening up even more. Gentle exercise ought to help."

Kutner nodded. Wilson gave a final glance himself at the blinds, then headed around the corner to his office.

His assistant was just leaving. "I put two messages on your desk, and I've rescheduled all your appointments for today. That just leaves your inpatients, and none of them are urgent, so you can fit rounds in whenever you get a chance."

"Thank you."

"How are they all doing?" she asked.

"Cuddy's stable but very weak. Rachel's okay, and the baby is holding on so far, but still could go either way with her."

"What about Dr. House?" The assistant moved a little closer and dropped her voice conspiratorially. "I must admit, I've never seen Dr. Cuddy so happy as she has been lately, and he was so sweet at their wedding."

"Don't tell him that; he has enough problems to handle right now without charges for assault with a cane."

The assistant grinned. "I wouldn't dare say that to his face. How is he holding up?"

"As well as he could be, I think."

She gave a sympathetic nod and turned away. "Give everybody except House my best wishes when you get a chance. He has them, too, but he wouldn't want to hear that."

Wilson was smiling as he went on into his office. The wedding had softened a lot of people toward the curmudgeon doctor, but the few who were bold enough to show it openly in front of him soon learned their lesson. He sat down at his desk and took a minute to run both hands through his hair, still trying to process the events of last night. After a while, he picked up the phone and called Jensen's office, asking for a return call when the psychiatrist had a few free minutes.

Jensen called back about half an hour later. "James, how are you holding up?"

Wilson shook his head. "I'm not sure. I think I'm still in shock."

"I think I am myself. Sounds like it was quite a night down there."

"Yes, it was. At least House called me in pretty quickly, from the ER. I was there through most of the surgery with him. I just wanted to let you know, I did check him out physically a little while ago. He said that was your idea. He's badly bruised, but nothing looks too major, and I did x-rays. All clean."

Jensen gave a sigh of relief. "Good. I'm glad he took my advice."

"How on earth do you do that anyway? I could spend a month trying to get House to have a physical and never get anywhere."

"I use logic and process. He usually responds pretty well to it. I'm reassured by the update, but what was your other reason for calling me?"

Wilson had to smile, tired as he was. "I swear, you're a mind reader at times."

"I only wish. What's bothering you, other than the general situation?"

"I'm just wrestling with myself on how much to step in here. I'm really trying not to stage manage other people's lives anymore, and I didn't call you last night for him, although I wanted to. But I really think he's going to need me sheep-dogging him a good bit the next few days, making sure he takes his meds and eats and sleeps. Is that . . . going too far? I honestly don't think he'd think of it himself right now. Where exactly is the line in a crisis?"

"You said he called you from the ER. You were specifically invited into this crisis, although it would have affected you anyway. But I think just making sure he takes care of himself while he's so distracted is perfectly fine. Not long term, but at the moment, with valid reasons he might not think of it for himself, yes. That will also reassure Dr. Cuddy, who needs to focus on her own healing instead of worrying about him."

"I already told her I was on it. I was also thinking . . . somebody needs to notify their parents. He mentioned that, but I could tell from his tone he'd rather hitchhike to California than make those calls right now, even though he's on pretty good terms with all of them. I was thinking maybe I could call for him, but then again, I got to thinking about the last time I decided to be the one breaking news to his mother."

Jensen considered. "Did he specifically ask you to?"

"No. He just sounded so . . . overwhelmed."

"You might make the offer if an appropriate opening comes up, but absolutely do not take the initiative on your own there. That's going too far."

Wilson sighed. "That's kind of what I thought you'd say. I'm just trying to help him some, but you're probably right. I sure don't want to make things any worse."

"Just be there. If you think of something you could do, ask him. I'm sure he'll tell you. I'll assume I got a pretty complete summary from him on everybody else, but how would you say he's holding up in general? I talked to him earlier, but you're the one who is there."

"He's . . . absolutely in shock. He is trying to deal with it, though, trying to keep going, and he's the one who thought of calling the parents. He's definitely not tuned in to everything his body's telling him right now, though. You wouldn't believe the bruising on his left leg. It hurts just to look at it. He's walking a bit oddly, but once you actually see it, you're surprised he's walking on it at all. But he actually said it was just a little stiff, and he was barely reacting when I was examining it. He's not fully registering his own pain at the moment. I had to practically force him to eat breakfast and lunch, too. He's trying to catch a nap now."

"Good. I'm sure he needs it. Keep an eye on him physically. I agree with you, he isn't going to think of his own needs right now, and he doesn't need to run himself into collapse. He did call you; he wants your help in this. But do not do things like calling the parents without asking him."

Wilson nodded. "That's about what I figured, but I just wanted a second opinion on it, to make sure I'm reading the situation right."

"You're making a lot of progress, James. I've got to go now, but you can call me if you need to. I already told Dr. House he could, and he gave me permission to call him and check in. One more thing."

"What's that?"

"Thank you for telling him to call my office this morning to cancel. That was the best possible way you could have handled that situation. I'll talk to you later." Jensen hung up, leaving Wilson sitting in his office staring at the phone.

No matter what Jensen might say, Wilson was still convinced at times that the psychiatrist truly was a mind reader.


	22. Chapter 22

Nightcap chapter, just back from my medical opinion, who is getting into this story now, too.

Did somebody request turning up the angst ever more? :)

(H/C)

Cuddy was bleeding out, waterfalls of blood filling the car, the level rising in the floorboard nearly to her knees. House reached forward desperately, grasping the twisted metal, ignoring how it cut his palms, trying only to get to her, to access the wounds and apply pressure. He ripped a piece from the side of the car with his bare hands, then stared at it in horror as it turned to part of her flesh. He dropped it as if it burned him, then frantically grabbed another piece of metal, double checking this time, wrestling it away with a fury that made both of his legs ache. He lurched backwards as it gave suddenly, and then it shimmered and transformed in his hands, and he was left holding her uterus. He quickly dropped it and tried again - he _had _to get the side of the car off her and access the pouring wounds.

The blood tide was rising, almost covering her lap now. She never said a word, but her eyes never left him, and there was such reproach in them at his failure that it made him redouble his unsuccessful efforts. The next piece he grabbed turned into her liver, after that her kidney, and as the blood swirled up her chest, he reached in for a piece of metal and ended up grasping her heart. It was still beating within his hands, and he stared at it as the blood rose up to cover her. The last thing to vanish was her disappointed eyes. In his hands, the heart beat twice more and then stopped, and as he stared down at the organ, forever stilled, and at the pile of other body parts at his feet, he realized that he himself had on Rachel's bright yellow cast, on the left arm instead of the right. It gleamed, pristine against his otherwise blood-stained hands and arms. In front of him, the tide of blood lifted the car with her body and rushed it away from him on the current, and he was left standing on the banks and holding her frozen heart in his hands. "I'm sorry," he gasped out.

His father appeared in front of him. "Words don't make any difference. I'll prove it to you. I'm sorry, Greg." One firm shove, and he was falling backwards, still clinging to Cuddy's lifeless heart in his hands.

CRASH!

Foreman and Thirteen had gone off somewhere, and Taub was doing clinic hours, but Kutner had stayed in the conference room, wanting to stick close just on the off chance that House needed something. He was working a crossword puzzle, but he came straight out of his chair at the thud from next door. He was at the connecting door in two long strides, wrenching it open, pushing his way through the blinds.

The office was dark, but he could make out the form of House, just in the process of stiffly picking himself up off the floor next to the Eames chair. "House!" Kutner was across the office in a flash. "Are you okay?"

House heaved himself up, using the Eames chair for a brace, favoring the right leg and leaning on the left, though he placed it a bit awkwardly. Kutner grasped his elbow to provide another anchor point and help a little. Once on his feet, House turned and sat down on the footrest. Kutner could feel his accelerated breathing. "I'm . . . I'm okay," House panted. "Had a bad dream. . . guess I fell out of the chair."

Kutner ducked back through the blinds through the open door into the conference room and filled a mug with water, bringing it back. House accepted it gratefully and took a few gulps as Kutner stepped back to switch on the desk lamp. Its dim light revealed House more clearly. He was sweating and looked pale, but his breathing was starting to slow down at least. One hand rubbed lightly at his right thigh. "Are you okay?" Kutner asked again after a minute. House nodded. "Dreaming about the car crash?"

House hesitated and then nodded. "Yeah. Damn that drunk driver."

"The one bad crash I've been in, I relived it a few times. It'll get better. Wilson said Cuddy's stable now, and I'm sure the baby will make it. I can't imagine any kid with genes from you and Cuddy giving up at anything."

House smiled slightly. "True. She ought to be stubborn." He pulled out his cell phone suddenly, dialing up the picture, and passed it over to Kutner. The second after he did, he wished he hadn't, afraid he was looking like some sappy, typical father, but Kutner took the phone and studied the picture without a single crack about House going soft.

"Don't say she looks just like one of us, because I'd know you're lying," House said, his eyes daring Kutner to spout some syrupy, sentimental platitude. "She's undercooked. She doesn't look like any of her relatives yet."

"She's not bad looking for a premie, though. She looks like a fighter." Kutner handed the phone back, totally serious, not making a joke out of it, and after a second House relaxed.

"She does." His breathing was almost back to normal now. "Where's the rest of the gang?"

"Taub's in the clinic, and who knows where Foreman and Thirteen are. Wilson told us not to bother you."

House glanced at his watch. He had been asleep, if you could call it that, for about 3 1/2 hours. He felt every bit as exhausted as he had before dropping off, if not more so. "Go do something yourself. I've got a few calls to make." Kutner hesitated. "Go on. I'm okay, just fell off the chair. It was a whole foot and a half to the floor."

"Would you mind getting up and walking over to the desk just to prove it?" House glared at him, and Kutner looked apologetic. "Pure self defense. If you hurt yourself and I didn't make sure you were okay, Wilson would kill me. And when she could, Cuddy would dig up the body and kill me again."

House stood up and walked over to the desk. His right leg was obviously hurting, and the left wasn't totally working right, either, but aside from looking rather stiff and placing his left leg carefully, House actually moved pretty quickly. It didn't look much worse than what Kutner had noted this morning. Falling out of the chair probably had annoyed his legs and bruises, but it didn't seem to have done any new damage. He'd just had a bad dream, as he'd said, and dreaming about a severe crash like that afterward was almost expected.

House dropped into the desk chair. "I'm fine. Now scram unless you want to call my in-laws for me." Kutner immediately looked helpfully eager as always, and House rolled his eyes. "I was _kidding._ Goodbye."

Kutner was smiling as he pushed back through the blinds, re-entered the conference room, and closed the connecting door.

House rested his head in his hands a moment and rubbed at his tired eyes. He could still almost see Cuddy in the car, the cast, her heart in his bloodstained hands, and his father. He shuddered and opened his eyes, inspecting his hands, verifying that there was no blood there, only the dressing on his left wrist. "Okay, cut the Lady MacBeth worries," he challenged himself. "Just a dream, which was _not _what actually happened. Now then, whose day should I ruin first? Eenie, meenie . . . "

The cell phone rang, casting its own vote, and House looked at it. The nanny. With a sigh, he answered.

"Dr. House? Is everything all right? Nobody was home this morning when I got there; I left a note. I've tried calling Dr. Cuddy several times through the day, but it goes straight to voicemail."

He sighed and launched into the explanation. Maybe he should write it down as a script, to refer to in all the other fun times he would get to have this identical conversation. "We were all in a car wreck last night, hit by a drunk driver. We're at the hospital."

The nanny gasped. "Is everybody all right?"

House flexed his non-phone hand. No blood, he reminded himself. It wasn't your fault. But no, nobody was all right. He only hoped they could someday be all right again. "No. We . . . Dr. Cuddy was hurt badly. She had surgery last night; she'll be recovering for a while. The baby is in the NICU, touch and go but hanging in there so far. Rachel broke her arm and cracked a few ribs." He left himself off the roll call. A few bruises and a cut wrist didn't belong alongside the rest of them.

"Oh my God." The nanny was stunned into silence after the first response, unsure what to say. House let her consider it while he studied his hand. "Do you need me?" she asked suddenly, pulling him back out of his thoughts.

"We probably will, next week at least. Rachel will probably stay here for tonight, and I've still got to call the parents. Maybe we can keep Rachel in on observation for another day or so; it's easier with everybody here. I'll call you when I have more details, okay?"

"All right. I'll send some flowers to Dr. Cuddy. I'll plan on Monday, but if you need me sooner, you've got my number. Okay?"

"Okay. Thanks."

"I'm sorry," she said as she hung up, and House flinched. His father. The stairs. Falling into eternity.

He wrenched his thoughts back to the present with an effort, and he pulled up his address book on the cell phone and spent a few minutes cycling between Blythe's number and that of Cuddy's parents. He stalled over it until his father's voice in memory started calling him a coward, and then he stabbed in irritation at the number.

Blythe answered cheerfully. "Oh, hello, Greg. Decided to call me a day early this week?"

He hesitated, hating to rupture her good mood. He hesitated too long, and her good mood deflated on its own. "Greg? What's wrong, dear?"

Cue up the tape, round two. "We were in a car wreck last night. We got hit by a drunk driver."

"Oh my God! Are you okay?"

"Lisa had severe abdominal injuries. She was in surgery most of last night. She nearly died."

"What about the baby? Greg? Is the baby all right?"

"She had to be delivered during the operation. Lisa wouldn't have held the pregnancy any longer." He avoided saying she'd never have any pregnancy again.

He heard the tears starting to well up in his mother's voice. "Oh God. She's too young."

"She's alive, Mom. She has a chance. Neonatology is very good these days. If she lives, she could be just fine."

"Or she could be not fine?"

Well, yes. "There is a chance of long-term defects, but some babies this young do great eventually." And another couple of weeks would have made _such _a difference, both in odds of survival and in odds of normal outcome. House felt his fury against the drunk driver rising again. He'd throw that jackass in a river of blood any day and not even try to save him.

"Greg? Are you there?"

He jumped and pulled his thoughts back from a modification, at least a more pleasant one, on his dream. "I'm here. Just was thinking for a few seconds." He hoped it had only been a few seconds.

"I said, what about Rachel?"

"She's fine. Broken arm and cracked ribs, but with pain meds, she barely knows anything's wrong now."

"And is Lisa doing better now?"

"She's stable. Still has a lot of recovery to go through, but she'll hopefully be fine." Minus a few no-longer-usable parts that he'd chosen to have removed. He shivered, remembering holding her uterus in his hands, and then holding her heart.

Blythe was still talking. "Greg? What about you?"

"I'm fine."

"Tell me the truth, Gregory."

"I cut one wrist, not in the wreck but trying to get Lisa out. A few stitches, and it's good as new. And I bruised up my left arm and leg some; that's where the car hit us. But the worst damage was on the other side of the car; we got thrown into a light post with a big concrete base."

"My God." She was still trying to grasp it. House closed his eyes and wished he didn't have to have this conversation yet again in a few minutes with Cuddy's parents. "I'll come as soon as I can, Greg. I'll check on planes."

"I probably can't get away to meet you this time. There's too much going on here. Can you rent a car?"

"Yes. I have problems with walking, not driving. I'll be fine, Greg, don't worry. I'll let you know as soon as I get into Princeton, but it will probably be tomorrow at the earliest. It's already late this afternoon."

"Get a night's sleep at home and start tomorrow, Mom. Nothing's likely to change up here in the next day." Unless the baby died.

"I'm not sure there's another plane tonight, anyway. I'll be there as soon as I can, Greg. And Greg?"

"What?"

"What's my granddaughter's name?"

He put his free hand across his closed eyes, further blocking out the desk lamp. "She doesn't have one yet. Lisa and I will have to talk about it, and she's not up to that discussion at this point."

"She needs a name, Greg. Something to hold onto, now that she's here. I really think Lisa would understand if you just named her on your own, given the circumstances. Just give her your choice; I'm sure it's a good one."

"No, I don't have a choice, because I haven't finished discussing it with Lisa yet."

"But surely you've thought about it today since she had to be born. Don't you think she deserves a name now that she's here?"

"Yes," he snapped, his irritation starting to show in his tone, "but I've been a little busy the last day doing things like watching my wife have a several-hour operation and nearly die on the table, so I haven't quite gotten down to that yet."

Blythe heard the annoyance and even more the strain beneath it, and she backed off. "I apologize, Greg. I'm sure you're exhausted with everything you've had to deal with, and you did your best. Did you get any sleep at all last night, dear?"

"No. Lisa was in surgery most of the night. I just took a nap." For all the good it had done him. Sure hadn't touched his weariness, no doubt due to the dreams, plus that awful final one. He opened his eyes quickly to look at his hands. No blood.

"Try to get some real sleep tonight, Greg. You sound worn out."

"I will, Mom. I'm okay. I need to go now, have to call Lisa's parents, but call me when you get to Princeton, okay?"

"I will. I'll call Susan for you if you want, dear."

No way. He was on very good terms with his in-laws, having far exceeded Lyla's report at the wedding, but still, he understood the concept of invisible scorecards, and what's more, Robert Cuddy practically lived by it. House couldn't possibly notify his own mother in person and use a more indirect method with them. Cuddy would hear about it repeatedly later, and while he was tempted right now to just send anybody else in the world an email and avoid phone calls altogether, he'd try to spare her the future problem. "Thanks, Mom, but I'll do it. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay, dear. Please, get some sleep. I love you."

"Love you, too."

House clicked off the phone and then shut his eyes again, resting his head in his hands, wishing the last day would just disappear. Cuddy's parents. He had to call Cuddy's parents. He couldn't let Blythe's notification precede theirs by too much, as that, too, would be noticeable.

The door of the office opened tentatively, and he heard Wilson's soft footsteps. "House?"

"Mmm hmm?"

"Most people sleep lying down." Wilson veiled his concern under the veneer of a joke.

"I'm not sleeping. I'm making phone calls."

"Most people use phones for that."

"I'm trying telepathy instead." House finally raised his head and opened his eyes. "It's not working."

Wilson was about to offer his services, but the utter weariness in House's face knocked him off track momentarily. "Did you get _any _sleep?"

"Nearly 3 1/2 hours." Wilson looked skeptical. "I was having dreams about the crash, okay?"

"Use the sleeping pill tonight. In fact, take the full dose."

House shook his head. "They might need me."

"I'll do my limited best to fill in. Seriously, House, if you don't get some rest, you're going to wind up looking like the Ghost of Sleep Past, and Cuddy will notice. You don't want her worrying about you instead of focusing on getting better herself." House still looked reluctant, and Wilson went all in. "I'm sure she'd agree with me."

"You are not going to bother her about it. I'm fine."

Wilson, claiming the current exemption to the non-interference policy, pushed on. House looked far too tired. He'd said dreams about the crash, not about his father, but repeatedly being hit by drunk drivers in his dreams was hardly restful, either. He needed several good, solid hours out, beyond the reach of nightmares. "I'll tell her you couldn't sleep this afternoon without the pill if I have to."

"I _did _sleep. Ask Kutner. . . no, on second thought, don't ask. . ." House sighed. "Look, if everybody is still stable in a few hours, I'll take the damn pill, but I'll stay up here. I'm not going home. And if something happens, I want you to wake me up, no matter what you have to use to do it. Satisfied?"

Wilson nodded. "I won't say anything to her. But believe me, if you don't get some rest tonight, I won't have to say anything to her tomorrow, even with her on morphine." House's eyes, still annoyed, left his and went to the cell phone lying on the desk. Wilson remembered the reason he'd come in to check if House was awake in the first place. "Listen, if you want me to call the parents for you, I will. Save you telling them." The story was bad enough secondhand. For someone who had actually been through the wreck, as House had, having to report it would be worse. Wilson wasn't surprised he was dreaming about it.

House shook his head. "I have to. I already called Mom. I have to call her parents."

"Oh." Wilson understood about in-law scorecards. He glanced at his watch. "I'll go down to the cafeteria then and get us something to eat, and when I come back up in a few minutes, you can tell her parents that I need you for something and you've got to go. That at least gives you a time limit. It'll be almost time to eat and take another round of the meds anyway."

House scowled, weighing forcing down another meal when he wasn't hungry against having a firm time limit on the next call. While he was debating, Wilson turned to leave. "Back in ten, tops," the oncologist called as he brushed through the blinds and exited.

House picked up the phone and dialed. Susan answered. "Oh, Greg, how nice to hear from you. How's Lisa?"

"Not so good. We were in an accident last night. We got hit by a drunk driver."

He heard her gasp. "What happened to Lisa? Is she all right?"

"She had some major abdominal injuries, and they got everything -" almost everything, he added silently "-patched up, but they had to go ahead and deliver the baby."

"My God. Is the baby alive?"

"Yes. She's in the NICU. It's very early, but we do have a chance."

Susan, like Blythe, had tears welling up in her voice at this point. "Oh, Greg, I'm so sorry for you two."

House flinched, his mind jumping back just a short while to his dream, ending with a new twist on the old theme of his father at the stairs. Never before today had he had to hold Cuddy's broken heart as he fell.

"Greg? Are you still there?"

He shook his head. Shut up, you bastard. Go back to hell, and I'll gladly send a certain drunk driver to join you. "Yes."

"What about Rachel?"

"She has a broken arm and a few cracked ribs, but she'll be okay. And Lisa should be all right, although it will take her longer."

"Were you hurt?"

"Just a few bruises and cuts. I'm okay."

Susan switched into practical mode. "Robert's in rehab. He just had his hip done."

"I know. You don't have to come."

"No, I need to come. I want to see Lisa, and the baby, of course." She paused, thinking. "I'll have to talk to Robert and check on a few things, but I'll probably get down there tomorrow or Sunday."

"We'll all be at the hospital. Just call when you get close."

"I will. And Greg, I am _so _sorry."

He flinched again, and Wilson entered the office at that moment. "I've got to go, Susan. Wilson just came in and needs me. I'll see you later."

"Keep us updated if anything changes in the meantime, Greg."

"I will." House ended the call and exhaled sharply.

Wilson stuck a plate with a reuben under his nose. "100 bonus husband points. We will tell Cuddy you talked to her parents; she'll appreciate that."

"I hope so." House eyed the sandwich, then picked it up. He had absolutely no appetite right now, but he knew Wilson would pester him to death otherwise.

Wilson seemed to sense that he had done more talking in the last hour than he wanted to, and the oncologist settled in the Eames chair himself without saying anything further. They ate in silence. House took another round of painkillers and then let his thoughts wander. Friday late afternoon. He should be in his appointment with Jensen right now; the psychiatrist would probably be calling back later to ask how everybody was doing. In fact House, not knowing that Wilson had already talked to Jensen this afternoon and mentioned House was trying to sleep, was surprised he hadn't called back yet. Jensen would probably manage to extract the details of that final nightmare from him. House wrenched his thoughts back away from the dream, giving a quick glance at his hands.

On a routine Friday, he would be nearly through his appointment, and then he would drive home. Cuddy would be home from work by the time he got back, and they would usually spend the evening with Rachel, either watching a movie or playing some game, or he might give them a concert on the piano. He would have given anything to switch one of those usual Friday nights for this one.

The piano. Music. A thought suddenly struck House so audibly that Wilson, across the room, heard it. "What?" the oncologist asked, the first word either of them had spoken in fifteen minutes.

"Just wondering if the baby would respond to music. Maybe I could load up some quiet, gentle pieces on the Ipod and take it down there. It might relax her, got to be a better experience than the respirator, the lines, and the monitors."

Wilson nodded. "Worth a try. Can she hear?"

"She ought to be able to hear. The nerve endings for skin sensitivity to touch aren't all finished developing yet, and the eyes are still closed for another few weeks." In fact, House knew that the eyes would quite likely have problems, possible corrective laser treatments upcoming a few months down the road. "But hearing is one of the first senses to develop. They seem to be able to hear the outside world several weeks earlier than this."

Wilson smiled. "Sure. Take her some music. Maybe Rachel would like some, too."

House nodded. "She probably would. She loves to listen to me play." Abruptly, he thought of Rachel sitting in his lap as he played, reaching out curiously to the keys but only when his music was silent. The slight smile froze as his mind's eye immediately supplied her with a bright yellow cast on one arm. He shivered.

"House?" Wilson sat up straighter in the Eames chair. "House?" His friend blinked and looked over at him. "What's wrong? Where did you go?"

"Nowhere important." House determinedly shook off the image, and he fished his Ipod out of his desk and started searching for soothing music on the computer.


	23. Chapter 23

Yep, the angst will continue for a while. Actually, believe it or not, the "seed" of this story, the root idea that my muse grabbed and ran with at first, hasn't even been introduced yet. I was near knocked over myself once she started working on things, but I have no control whatsoever over her. And yes, the baby does have a name, but you won't be finding it out for a while. Sorry . . . or maybe I should say, I apologize. It's necessary in the story. Happy reading and thanks for the reviews!

(H/C)

House entered the NICU, holding his Ipod. He stopped to put on scrubs and gloves as usual and headed across to the incubator. She looked about the same, tiny, fairly still, keeping warm in her enclosed plastic box that did its best to substitute for the womb she had been denied. After a glance at the monitors, taking in her condition and analyzing it in one sweeping glance, he put the Ipod on top of the incubator, put it on speaker, and cued up a selection of gentler Mozart that he'd picked and downloaded from the internet.

A few nurses looked up as the music started. Some of the nearby babies reacted, too, but House only had eyes for one. She did shift slightly, turning her head. The music played on, and he noted after a few minutes that her heart rate, which had been on the high side even for an infant although not dangerously so, dropped a few points. "This is Mozart," he told her, wishing that he did have a name to call her. "You'll be learning a lot about him down the road."

"That's a good idea," a nurse stated behind him. "There have been some studies done with playing music in hospitals. It does seem to make a difference."

"I thought it might be something . . . positive." God knew she needed something positive. Ripped from her protected environment, now in an incubator, on a respirator, and hooked to an arsenal of lines and monitors.

The nurse nodded. "You can touch her if you want. Just stick your hands through the holes on the side. Eventually, we'll give her 'kangaroo time' directly in skin-to-skin contact with the parents, but she isn't stable enough thermally to be out of the closed incubator for any significant amount of time right now, and her nervous system is still developing anyway. The nerve endings aren't completely hooked up to the skin. She can't respond to touch everywhere yet."

House nodded. This age was a busy time for neurological development. He knew her spine would be taking on its eventual form about right now, too. He inserted his hands through the holes in the plastic box, then hesitated. "She can feel it on her abdomen, right?" He knew the book fact, but somehow, this being _his_ kid, he wanted to verify.

"Yes. She definitely feels it there. That's one of the first areas to get 'wired' for touch."

House touched her on the abdomen, just above her diaper - amazing that diapers even came in this size. It might have been meant for a doll. She twitched slightly, pulling away. "Has she been keeping stable?"

"Just the desaturations, but that's expected. Nothing out of the ordinary so far."

"Except the whole damned situation." He felt fury rising up again, and his daughter pulled away. He withdrew his hands, afraid she'd read his tension through his fingers. "It's okay, kid. Mozart is probably better company than I am right now." He looked at her for another moment, then turned away. "Keep the Ipod. I've got it on a spool."

"We will. None of the others seem to be objecting to it at all."

Which was a good thing, House thought as he left, since their opinions hadn't been asked. His daughter seemed a little bit less stressed with it, going by her vitals. With that all-important fact established, he didn't care what anybody else thought. This, at least, was something he could do for her.

(H/C)

Rachel was the next stop. Wilson had donated his Ipod to the cause, and House had loaded it with a similar selection. He entered the pediatrics wing and then stopped in her door as he felt his own heart rate kick into overdrive. Damn that cast. It almost seemed to grow larger, dominating the whole picture. Memories swirled around the edges. He shoved them back, getting mad at himself now. This was crazy. This was his daughter, and it was just a cast, not one he had put there. There was no reason to have such a powerful reaction to seeing it. "Hi, Rachel," he called.

She heard him and turned around in her bed. "Dada!" The aide who had been playing with her turned around, as well, and smiled at them.

He came across to the bed, reaching out to pick her up and flinching as the weight hit him. With both legs with difficulties, it was harder. He dropped into the chair and settled her across his lap. "I brought you a present, squirt. Look at this." He held out Wilson's Ipod and switched it on, and Rachel's eyes widened at the music. She looked from it to his hands and back to it.

"Dada?"

He understood. "I can't play for you at the moment, I'm afraid. Too much going on here. But here's some music, okay?" He swallowed and glanced at his own watch as Rachel reached for the Ipod. He did an informal count of his respirations for a minute. 22 per minute, over normal, edging toward concerning. This doesn't make sense, you idiot. It's just a cast. He forced himself to look at it, and it almost seemed to pulse out, as if lit with an inner yellow light. Voices of memory pressed in.

"Dr. House?"

He blinked and looked up. The aide was looking at him. "Are you okay? You're sweating."

He was, he realized. This was insane. Here he was edging toward a panic attack just because his daughter had a cast on. "I'm okay. I was just walking fast to get here, and with the cane and all . . ."

She didn't quite look convinced, but she didn't challenge the statement. Rachel, meanwhile, was fascinated with the Ipod. He let her hold it, although she couldn't work it yet. "I'm going to leave this down here for her. You'll have to watch and help her with it."

"That's fine. She does seem to like music." The aide studied him, her eyes going soft as she remembered the story about the wedding. House recognized the look and passed Rachel back to her, standing up. The last thing he needed was to hear how sweet she thought his gift was, especially now when it seemed every muscle in his body was already on edge. He had to get out of here. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad elsewhere.

"I'm going up to see Dr. Cuddy now. If she's feeling up to it, I'll get Dr. Wilson to come back for Rachel and bring her for a visit. I'm afraid to carry her at the moment myself, banged my leg up last night." Perfectly true, he didn't feel stable enough to carry her, especially while he was practically hyperventilating on top of it. He'd try a visit in Cuddy's room. That should be better, the family together. Nice contrast to his past. No possible way to mix them up.

"Okay. We'll be watching for him."

House bent over and hugged Rachel, then gave her a kiss, which she dramatically returned, a trick she'd picked up just in the last week. The aide smiled and he tried to. "See you in a little while, kid."

He turned and left pediatrics on his fastest limp. Once around the first corner from the ward, he stopped and took his own pulse and respiration, then took it again two minutes later. There was a drop in the numbers, even though he was by now totally mad at himself. This shouldn't be happening, he thought. It was all going better, everything improving steadily with the therapy. He hadn't had to worry about nightmares during a simple nap at work for months, either. Even a crisis shouldn't be affecting him like this. He straightened up and limped determinedly toward Cuddy's room. To hell with his past problems. They were going to have a family visit there tonight, provided she felt like it . . . and provided she let him in.

(H/C)

Cuddy had just woken up from a long drug-induced nap and was looking around the room. She felt a little clearer mentally, although the pain was still there, especially when she moved. She tried to lie as still as she could and let her mind attempt to grasp the events of the last day. Their daughter . . . their _only _biological child, fighting for her life in the NICU. There would never be another. Cuddy had known the chances weren't good for multiple children anyway, given her history and her age, but to have the door of hope irrevocably slammed in her face and padlocked hit her hard.

This child simply _had _to live. Fate couldn't be that cruel. She blinked back tears.

A light tap sounded on the glass at the door, and she looked up to see House. "Can I come in?" he asked, sounding oddly tentative. "I brought you a picture."

What an odd question, she thought. It sounded like a genuine request for permission. But the prospect of a picture almost immediately derailed that train of thought before it had left the station. "A picture of the baby?"

He nodded. He had made it about two steps inside the door, but he hadn't come to the bed yet. "Well, don't just tease me with it. Come here, Greg."

A tiny fraction of the tension released, and he walked across, pulling out the cell phone. He called up the picture, and they studied it together.

"She's so little," Cuddy sighed. "How big is she, Greg?"

"1 pound 6 ounces. She's hanging tough so far. And she likes Mozart."

Cuddy smiled. "You took her Mozart?"

"Left my Ipod down there. It seemed to improve her vitals a little bit."

She smiled wider at the thought of House giving up his Ipod for his daughter's comfort without a second thought. "That was a good idea, Greg."

"Of course it was." There was just a glimmer of his old ego front there. "And Rachel has Wilson's Ipod."

"Rachel. Could I see Rachel? I know I can't see . . . the baby yet." She glossed over the nonexistent name. They'd deal with that soon, but she didn't feel strong enough right now, and she knew she'd have to take the lead in that conversation.

"I was about to ask if you're up for a visit with Rachel. How are you feeling?"

"Weak. Everything hurts, but not quite like this morning, not as long as I'm still. At least the anesthesia is totally worn off and I can think tonight. I'd love to see Rachel."

"Let me call Wilson to go get her. I don't want to carry her myself." That drew Cuddy's full attention to him for the first time in the conversation, and she studied him as he talked to Wilson. He had changed out of the bloodstained shirt, at least, but the glass cuts on his face and the dressing on his wrist were clearly visible. He was standing crooked, too, and not his usual crookedness. His face looked set and weary.

He hung up and smiled at her. "Wilson will have her here in a few minutes."

"Greg, are you okay? You aren't standing right, and you said you didn't want to carry her."

"Just bruises," he reassured her. He walked a half lap of the room, demonstrating. "I've got two annoyed legs at the moment, although at least the left one doesn't hurt that much. It's just stiff. But I don't want to carry Rachel with my mechanics off; I'd hate to drop her."

She nodded. "Good idea. You ought to get some sleep tonight, Greg. You look worn out."

"I will," he assured her. "Last night had too much going on, but tonight, I'll conk out for the whole night up in my office, close if you need me but comfortable. You know I've got the best napping chair in the hospital."

He did indeed, a silent but appreciated concession to his leg. She thought of him watching her surgery last night. She had no doubt he'd been there for the whole thing, even though banged up himself. "Are you sure you're okay, Greg?"

"I'm fine." He sat down in the visitor's chair, for the first time convinced he was allowed to stay. He hesitated, then went on, encouraged by the apparently legitimate concern in her voice. "I am so sorry, Lisa."

This time she heard the phrase, and her eyes flared up. "It is NOT your fault that we got hit by some drunk idiot, Gregory House."

"But it was my decision."

"Wait a minute. I have a feeling we're talking about totally different things here. _What _was your decision?"

He had been studying his hands, but he looked up at that, confusion wrestling with regret in his eyes. "The . . . hysterectomy. I authorized it."

"I figured you had. Somebody had to give consent."

He was staring at her now, confusion knocking regret out of the ring. "But this morning . . ."

"What about this morning?"

"When I told you . . . and then I said . . . never mind."

Cuddy raised the head of her bed a little. "No, we are _not _dropping this subject, because I'm still not sure what this subject even is. Go on, Greg. This morning is pretty fuzzy to me, but what did you say?"

"You really don't remember?"

"You told me about the wreck, and then what happened to each of us. Did you tell me anything else? I wasn't totally hitting on all cylinders right then, in case the medical fact hadn't occurred to you." He looked back down at his hands. "Greg, what is it?"

His voice was low, his eyes still averted. "I told you about the hysterectomy. And then I said I authorized it and said I was sorry. And then you started crying and said we could never have any more."

Cuddy gave a groan, not of pain but of frustration, suddenly putting that puzzle together. "And you thought I was _blaming _you?"

"You _weren't_?"

Cuddy sighed. "Look at me, you idiot. Did you think this was just like your surgery?" He didn't answer, but silence gave consent. "Greg, _look _at me. This morning, I was still pretty fuzzy, like I said. I didn't hear a thing you said after the word hysterectomy. And yes, damn it, I started crying, but I was_ not _blaming you. And this isn't like Stacy. Have I _ever_ told you in advance that if I were hit by a drunk driver and had major abdominal injuries, whatever you do, don't take my uterus?"

A half smile crept across his face, and he shook his head.

"See? Not the same situation at all."

"So when you told me later to go home . . ."

She rolled her eyes. "You looked tired. I wasn't telling you to pack up and get out of my life." Come to think of it, he still looked tired, even more so. "Did you go home?"

"No, but I took a nap up in the chair." He darted off that subject to another before she could ask for details. "I called the parents."

That did indeed distract her momentarily. "Thank you. Are they coming?"

"Your dad can't, of course. Everybody else will be here this weekend some time. They want to see you and the baby." He sighed. "Mom wants to know her name."

Cuddy understood how much this had been an issue for him. She'd been trying to encourage but not pressure him for months on it. "We'll talk about it, Greg. And by we, I mean you and I, _not_ the parents. But Rachel and Wilson will be here any minute. We'll both feel better for it tomorrow, okay?"

He nodded. "Tomorrow."

"Greg, look at me." The beautiful blue eyes, red-rimmed and weary but still beautiful, met hers. "Greg, we are okay. That's not a question; it's a statement. _We are okay._ Do you believe that?"

His eyes searched hers for sincerity, and finding it, he relaxed. "I do now."

"Good. And for future reference, in a life-threatening emergency, you may use your medical judgment to take whatever steps are needed. There's nobody whose medical judgment I'd rather trust. If you say it had to be done, I believe you."

He smiled at her, feeling the knot in his stomach release for the first time today, and she smiled back at him, glad to have gotten that one out of the way.

Wilson came through the door of the room a minute later, Rachel in his arms. "Hey, looks like you've got a visitor."

"Rachel!" Cuddy reached out, and Wilson parked the child on the edge of the bed, supporting her and being careful not to jostle Cuddy's abdomen with its extensive stitches. Rachel laughed and stretched out her arms toward her mother, the whole left one and the right one with the cast.

And House sat quietly at the bedside forcing himself to breathe evenly, feeling his heart rate accelerate, feeling the ghosts of the past creeping around outside the glass wall of the room, looking for entrance.


	24. Chapter 24

House sat in the chair practicing every technique he'd ever heard of to try to stay calm. He picked out gentle mental music - some of the baby's Mozart, actually - and timed his respiration to the measures, perfectly even, slow, deep breaths. He kept his eyes absolutely off that pulsing cast. Fortunately, Cuddy, still weak, in the glow of reunion and having just established that they were okay, didn't notice. She was focused on Rachel. House allowed his eyes to stay off the child, but he absolutely demanded that his body stay there, calmly, quietly. He shouldn't be reacting like this. It didn't make sense.

Wilson glanced at him after several minutes with question mark eyebrows. "You're awfully quiet."

"Just tired," House replied. Mozart. In, out, in, out. If they started getting too suspicious, he decided to whack himself surreptitiously in the right thigh, taking advantage of the gating mechanism in reverse. He'd welcome a spasm right about now.

"He needs to get some sleep," Cuddy insisted, glancing over from Rachel for a brief moment.

"I will," House stated. "Wilson volunteered to be my answering service for tonight. Although if something really does need me, wake me up." His eyes were directly on Wilson's, challenging and reminding. No mention of nightmares or sleeping pills.

"Right," Wilson chimed up, picking up the baton on the game of reassure Cuddy. "I'll sleep in my office on the couch, and everybody can call or page me. I'll run interference so he gets several straight hours."

"Good," Cuddy approved.

Right then, House's cell phone rang. He pulled it out with a surge of relief as he saw caller ID. Jensen, checking in. House stood up so fast that both of his legs protested, but he ignored them. "It's Jensen. I'm going up to my office; I'll come back down later to say goodnight." He limped briskly out the door and pulled out the phone. "Hello. Give me a few minutes."

In the room, Cuddy abruptly realized it was Friday. "Jensen. He missed his appointment, didn't he?"

"I made sure he called to cancel. Jensen had told him he'd call later just to check on everybody."

"Good. Maybe he'll take the opportunity to talk out a few things with him." Wilson looked questioning, silently wondering which, if any, of the things Cuddy wasn't supposed to be worrying about was the topic here. "You know that idiot thought I was blaming him for the surgery last night?"

Oh, that one. The oncologist nodded. "Yeah, he'd cast himself in the role of Stacy. I was going to warn you probably tomorrow; you were still pretty foggy earlier. Glad you realized it yourself, though."

"I _think _I got that one firmly out of the way." She rolled her eyes. "For such a genius, he can jump to some stupid conclusions at times. I hope he does talk to Jensen some, though, not just updating him on us. Those sessions always help him." Her attention returned to Rachel. "Is your arm hurting, baby girl?"

"Mama," Rachel babbled contentedly.

Wilson shook his head. "They've got her on pain meds, and I'm being careful how I hold her with the ribs, but she doesn't really seem aware of anything wrong at this point. Did you guys ever make any progress picking a name for the baby? I asked House, and he was getting annoyed, so I dropped it."

"We're going to have to really talk about it tomorrow. His mother was pestering him earlier when he called. I think he thinks putting in serious input on names makes him determining her happiness and the entire course of her future or something, but we have to pick one now."

Wilson nodded. "She deserves one. Maybe since Blythe is putting on the pressure now, he'll talk that over with Jensen, too."

"I hope so." Cuddy smiled at Rachel. "Two little girls. Have you seen the baby, Wilson?"

"I went by earlier this afternoon for a look. She's tiny, but she's stable so far. Did he tell you he took her some music?"

She smiled. "He said it helped her vitals some. He showed me a picture." Weariness settled down over her like a thick blanket suddenly. This was the longest period she'd been alert and talking since the surgery, but her body still had a lot of healing ahead, and it was suddenly reminding her of that.

Wilson saw it and stood up. "We're wearing you out. You need to rest."

Cuddy sighed. "Maybe I could take a nap while Greg's talking to Jensen. He said he'd come back to say goodnight. Wilson, please make sure he sleeps tonight. He looks absolutely exhausted."

"I will," Wilson promised. He snuggled Rachel closer to him. "I'll take her back down to Peds. I think she's starting to get sleepy herself; hopefully Mozart plus meds will send her right off for the night. I'll bring her back tomorrow for a visit, though."

Cuddy nodded, her eyes starting to drift shut. "Wilson? Thank you for being there the last day."

He nodded and turned to leave, fighting down his own surge of anger. House had joked often that he thrived on being needed, but no friend ever wants to be needed in a situation like this. "Night, Cuddy."

"Good night." Her eyes fell, and Wilson quietly left the room.

(H/C)

House settled into his Eames chair, stretching out his aching right leg and the stiff left one. At least he felt less like the walls of memories were closing in once he got away from Rachel. He shook his head, angry with himself, and picked up the cell phone. "Okay, I'm in my office."

"How is everybody doing?" Jensen asked.

"Cuddy is better, still weak but seems to be doing okay." Jensen noted, though did not comment on, the fact that House had reverted to his usual form of reference to her with Jensen. With Cuddy, at least, he was feeling less rattled. "Rachel is fine, doesn't even know she's hurt at this point. The baby is holding on. Her O2 saturation is yo-yoing at times, but that was nearly guaranteed."

"I'm glad they're all stable. How are you doing yourself?"

House hesitated, and Jensen, who had expected an immediate dismissal and then having to dig a bit around it to get to the facts, was surprised. "What is it?" he asked.

"That damn cast! I can't get my eyes off it. I feel like Rachel's going to be afraid of me any second."

"Has she showed any signs of that? Forget your reactions for the moment; what about her? Is she reluctant or tentative around you?"

"No. But I . . . I should be dealing with this whole situation better. I had a better handle on everything lately; all the progress shouldn't just vanish like this the first time anything happens."

"You don't think this is an extreme stressor?"

"Of course it is," House snapped, "but I ought to be . . .I should be able to handle it. I'm supposed to be getting better at handling things."

Jensen considered strategies. He could hear the anger and frustration; House was even more on edge now than he had been earlier today, in spite of the apparent improvement with the situation with Cuddy. The psychiatrist backed away from feelings for the moment to try to apply logic, which always seemed to steady House. "Dr. House, imagine that this same situation happened a year ago. Hypothetically. Go back to a year ago in your mind, or two years, or whatever year you choose prior to this one. If you had been suddenly thrust into the middle of these same events, what would you be doing right now?"

House made himself think about it, his hand idly rubbing his right thigh. "I'd have left the hospital, walked away from everybody, and be sitting at home getting totally wasted."

"And would you be annoyed that you weren't coping with your feelings and memories of your past well enough?"

House felt the knot of frustration relax a fraction. "Hell, no. If I came anywhere close to a feeling or memory, I'd run in the opposite direction as fast as one leg and Jack Daniels could take me."

"Precisely. So why do you think all progress has disappeared in the current situation?"

House sighed and ran one hand over his eyes. "I guess it hasn't, but it just feels . . . so real. Like my Dad's right there in the room whenever I see that cast."

"Dr. House, I want you to realize just how much progress you have made, but I also think that the biggest explanation for your difficulty managing this current onslaught of memories is physical. I'm not there to see, but just judging from your tone and your irritation level, I'd say you are absolutely physically exhausted right now. Would you agree with that assessment?" House hesitated. "_Medically,_ would you agree with that assessment?"

"Yes," House admitted after a moment.

"Did you ever get a nap today?"

"I tried, but I was having dreams. Not of Dad . . . not until the end."

"Were you dreaming about the crash?"

"Sort of, but worse." House recounted the dream, feeling the same difficulty in sharing the details and the same almost release afterward that he usually did when sharing specific details with Jensen. Talking about it really did help. "And then I apparently fell off the chair when I fell down the steps, and one of my team heard and came running to the rescue. Kutner." House shook his head. "Of course, there had to be somebody to see that. Should have locked the doors, but I haven't had problems taking a nap at work in months."

"And of course, when he came in and found you on the floor, he ridiculed you and told you to grow up, toughen up, and deal with things better."

House gave a soft chuckle. "Well, not quite. Actually, he didn't make a big deal out of it at all. Of course, I didn't tell him everything, just said I was dreaming about the crash. In fact, he asked me if that's what I was dreaming about."

"Because he could understand you being stressed out right now and having bad dreams. Because that's practically _expected_. Back to the nightmare - I won't call it a dream - I'm not surprised at all at that, but I do think you need to get some solid sleep as soon as possible, chemically assisted if you have to. You are physically running yourself down without true rest, and that will make dealing with Rachel's cast and everything else that much worse. Take the full dose tonight and get some sleep. That will be much more productive than annoyance at yourself."

House leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. "I'd already planned on it, actually. Wilson was lecturing me earlier."

"Dr. Wilson in this instance was right."

"Yeah, I know. He said he'd take phone duties tonight, and hopefully everybody is stable."

"That sounds like an excellent plan. He can sleep in shifts better than you can right now. Which does not mean that you've canceled all progress, just means that you have been through an incredibly traumatic and stressful 24 hours, and you are worn out from it, which anybody at all, myself included, would be. I'm going to end this call now, and I want you to go ahead and go to sleep."

"I told Cuddy I'd go back down to say goodnight. She doesn't hate me, by the way."

Jensen smiled but resisted exploring that inviting avenue. First things first. "I was convinced of that anyway. Go back to her briefly, and then get some sleep. I really think your main difficulty with your memories right now is physical. Let's test that theory."

"Okay." House pried his eyes open. "I'll head down to her room, and then I'm sure Wilson will tuck me in for the night. He's been right in my back pocket all day today."

"Good. Good night, Dr. House. Get some rest."

"Good night. And thanks."

"You're welcome." Jensen hung up, and House sat up slowly in the chair, then got up, aware once again of the stiffness of his left leg. At least it wasn't hurting much, not unless he tried something like picking up Rachel.

A few minutes later, he was down in Cuddy's room. She was asleep, and Wilson was watching her and waiting. "I took Rachel back to her room, and she was almost asleep already when I left. You ready to punch out for the night?"

"In a minute. I told her I'd say goodnight."

"I'll be up in your office, and any longer than 10 minutes, I'll be back down hunting you."

"Yes, mother," House snarked, and Wilson grinned at the tone. House seemed a little less tense now. Talking with Jensen had apparently helped.

Wilson left, and House bent over to kiss Cuddy. Her eyes slowly opened. "Just wanted to say good night," he told her. "I'm clocking out for the night, but Wilson will get me if anybody needs me."

She gave a drowsy smile. "Get some rest, Greg. Good night."

"Good night." They kissed again, reassurance of the other's presence rather than passion right now, and he waited until her eyes were closed again before he left the room. He stopped by the nurse's station to remind them about her pain meds, then slowly headed back up to his office, his body feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Wilson was there waiting and even had a glass of water ready. "Vicodin and sleeping pill," he commanded, handing House the glass.

"And hello to you to. You know, I've been taking pills on my own for years."

"I want to see you take the full dose. You've got to get some rest, House. If things get much worse, you'll be nearly as pale as Cuddy is."

House collapsed into the Eames chair, shook out his nighttime Vicodin and the sleeping pill, and showed them to Wilson before gulping them down. "Satisfied?"

"Ecstatic." Wilson picked up a hospital blanket and spread it over him. "Nighty night."

"Wake me up if you have to," House insisted, but his eyes were already closed. "And lock the office just in case anybody wanders in. Use the balcony door yourself."

Wilson got up and locked both the main door and the one into the conference room, then switched off all the lights. He still stood there until House was snoring softly, and then he turned the desk lamp back on and went over for a better look at him, checking his pulse and respiration, studying his face. House looked utterly drained. He didn't move at Wilson's activity; he was solidly out. Wilson pulled the blanket up and then switched off the desk lamp and exited through the balcony door. "Night, House," he said. His friend didn't reply. Once in his own office, Wilson kicked off his shoes and made a nest on the couch, carefully placing his phone and his pager on the table next to him. He had left instructions at all nurses' stations that he was the first line of contact tonight. With a weary sigh, Wilson himself drifted off into rest.

(H/C)

"House. . . House."

He was weighed down under a rain-heavy cloud. The voice came down a tunnel from somewhere above to him.

"House." Hands picked up his arm and then poked him in the side.

"Mmmph."

"Come on, House." He suddenly felt pressure across his nailbeds, and with difficulty, he opened his eyes. The oncologist was leaning over him.

"Go 'way." His eyes fell back shut.

"House. We need you."

That dragged his eyelids back open again. He realized abruptly that daylight was showing through the windows, and he was surprised to see that the night was already over. He still felt like he was fighting through clouds of the drug in his mind. "S'going on?"

"Are you awake?"

"No. What?"

"Cuddy's spiking a fever, and the NICU just called. The baby has an intraventricular hemorrhage."

House determinedly pushed the clouds away and sat up. He got to his feet too quickly and nearly fell over, the right leg yelling at him and reminding him of the usual gradual morning procedure. The left leg felt like a log attached at the hip. Wilson caught him and steadied him. "Easy. Give it a minute. Those bruises will probably be worse today, second day after the injury."

Slowly the world stabilized under his feet. House took a tentative step. The left leg was indeed worse today, but at least it still didn't hurt that much. The right one was throbbing, but he ignored it. "Let go. I've been walking for years."

Wilson retreated half a step, still standing ready if needed, and slowly and stiffly, House limped out of the room, heading for the elevators. He passed the team just arriving; they took one look and parted silently for the other two doctors.

Nobody even thought of saying good morning.


	25. Chapter 25

Info on NJ DWI laws is from the internet. Drunk drivers, by the way, are a pet peeve of mine, couldn't help working it into a story. I have not encountered ANY state's DWI laws that I think are anywhere close to sufficient, and then, of course, there is plea bargaining, which for some charges ought not to be allowed. Nobody is forced to drink and drive. Get a taxi. I read once about some small country years ago where the penalty for DWI was losing your license for life on your first offense, and on your second offense (obviously without license), you go to prison for 10 years, and will actually serve those years, too. Guess what? They hardly had any problem with drunk drivers there.

PSA over. Enjoy, if that's the right word for it, chapter 25. We are getting close to what I consider the climax of this story and the top of the big hill (no, we weren't to the big hill yet. These were just preparatory hills).

(H/C)

House, Wilson, and the neonatologist stood in the scan room, studying the films. "Grade II at the moment. We'll keep a close eye on it," the neonatologist stated. "If it goes up to Grade III, we'll have to place a shunt." He looked from the films to House. "This happens in over 50% of very premature babies; it's a very common complication. I'm sorry, but hopefully it won't expand past Grade II."

House flinched at the words I'm sorry, but his eyes were riveted to the scans. He had feared this from the time of delivery. The ventricles are the cavities in the brain that store CSF, but in very premature babies, the blood vessels adjacent to them are still developing and fragile. Even more concerning, up until about 35 weeks gestation, the germinal matrix, an area of the brain controlling fetal development, is full of blood vessels and activity, and it lies directly below the ventricles. The germinal matrix has completely disappeared by the 8th month of pregnancy, but in a baby ripped from the mother's protected environment while it was still present and active, any fluctuation in blood pressure, even one ironically caused by the ventilator that is busy saving another part of the infant's anatomy, can cause rupture.

The outcome was determined by the grade of hemorrhage. Grade I, or mild, had excellent long-term prognosis. Grade II, moderate, was more serious than grade I, but it was Grade III and IV that so often led to raised ICP, hydrocephalus, and long-term brain damage and functional defects. With Grade IV, the chance of brain damage was nearly 100%.

House closed his eyes, and Wilson, next to him, eyed him with concern. House still looked pale and tired, even though he'd gotten over nine hours of sleep last night. Of course, being dragged out of sound sleep to go visit Cuddy, whose spiking fever was being kept at bay with a cooling blanket while the assault of antibiotics was intensified, and then to come get results of the scan on his daughter was enough to stress out anybody. Wilson noted House leaning on his cane more than usual and reminded himself to provide breakfast as soon as he thought he had a chance of forcing House to eat it. He needed the anti-inflammatories.

"Other than the IVH," the neonatologist continued, "she's been continuing problems with sudden desaturations, but we're managing those with the respirator. We have her on surfactant to try to accelerate development of the lungs. Also, I noted the music."

House opened his eyes. "You don't suppose that made her bleed?"

"No, of course not. In a 25-week gestation, it's very hard to prevent a bleed. I was going to say, her vitals were a bit more stable last night on the record after that, and several of the nearby babies responded also. We might put in a request for a sound system down in the NICU on the next budget."

Wilson gave a weak smile. "I think Cuddy will probably be favorably inclined toward NICU budget requests now."

"When she gets back to work, whatever month that is," House snapped. He turned abruptly and walked out of the scan room, and the neonatologist looked after him with unmistakable sympathy.

"He didn't mean to snap at you; he's just stressed out at the moment," Wilson apologized.

"Believe me, I understand. I'd be on edge myself. This is rare, you know. Most premature babies I work with are the result of some physiological problem in the pregnancy, not the result of stupidity."

"Damn driver." Wilson eyed the scans. "Honestly, what do you think her chances are?"

Wilson wasn't family, but House had just told the doctor a short while ago to go ahead and speak openly in front of him. "For survival, a little over 50%," the neonatologist said. "For functionality, there are too many variables, including if this bleed worsens. If it stays steady and we have only the routine complications from here on, she could be fine or with only minimal deficits. Her response to any one of those routine complications would have an impact on the result."

Wilson shook his head. "Routine complications . . . and I thought I had a rough specialty."

"I've got pictures, actually," the neonatologist said. "Pictures parents send me of babies who were my patients for months, and they are now going to school, playing soccer. I'm sure you've got updates from patients years ago, too. There are lots of success stories."

True, Wilson thought. Also true that the parents whose kid is now dead or with a functional IQ a fifth of theirs aren't likely to send you updates for your former patient file. He sighed. "I'd better go find House." He didn't think his duties in keeping an eye on his friend would wind up much less today than yesterday.

(H/C)

On the way to Cuddy's room, House stopped at the nurse's station as he saw the two uniformed police officers there. "Dr. House, these officers want to talk to you," the nurse called.

House glanced toward Cuddy's room. "Is she the same?"

"No change yet."

With a sigh, House turned to face the police. "Dr. House? I'm Officer Morrison. I realize this is a bad time, but we just need a statement about the accident."

"Is he in jail?"

"The other driver? He made bail."

House clenched his fist on his cane until the fingers turned white. "You mean that irresponsible bastard just walked out and returned to _his _life? I wish my family had that option."

Morrison looked sympathetic. "There has to be a trial. I understand your anger, but we have to follow due process. And the statement we get from you is a very important part of convicting him at that trial. We'll also need a statement from your wife when she's up to it."

"Well, considering that right now, she has a fever of 103.8 and is only semiconscious and not coherent, I think you'll have to postpone that."

"Please, Dr. House, can you give us just a short statement yourself?" They had the attention of the whole nurse's station and anybody else within earshot at this point. "Is there somewhere we could discuss this more privately?"

House turned and stalked off at an annoyed limp, not even answering. The two police followed him to the small waiting area for family and friends. "Now, in your own words, what happened? Remember, this helps to convict him."

House fought down fury. "I had stopped at a red light. The light changed, and I started across. He entered the cross street from the bar halfway down the block and floored it, accelerating up into the intersection and running the red light. I tried to dodge, and he swerved the same way and hit us. That knocked the car across into the light post on the far corner of the intersection. Bottom line: I had green; he had red. I was sober; he couldn't even walk straight. Open and shut enough for you?"

A hand on his elbow made him jump, and he realized that Wilson had come up unnoticed behind him. House took a deep breath. "What was his BAL?"

"It was 0.21."

Wilson shook his head in disbelief. "And the bartender kept serving him?"

"Apparently, they had cut him off. He said he had a ride outside."

"What will he get?" House asked. "At the trial, what's the penalty for DWI?"

"It's his second offense, so if he's convicted, he'll get a fine of between $500 and $1000, 30 days community service . . ."

"30 days? And $500? You have _got _to be kidding me."

"He also has to serve at least 48 hours in jail."

"48 _hours?_" Wilson chimed in, his own blood pressure rising.

"And he loses his license for 2 years."

"Meaning he still gets his full life back, oh minus the $500 to $1000, sooner than we will be sure that my daughter, assuming she lives that long, will have no permanent disabilities of any kind in long-term functioning."

Morrison shook her head. "I'm sorry." House flinched. "You can, of course, file a civil case."

"We will," House vowed. "Not that it will make up for it, but I don't want this moron to even be able to afford to OWN a car when we're done with him." He started to turn away and was frozen in his tracks by her next words.

"And as for the driver's claim of assault . . ."

"WHAT?"

"He filed a complaint of assault. He says you hit him."

"Yes, I hit him, and the next time I see him, I'll hit harder."

Wilson tugged at House's arm. "House, maybe you'd better . . . "

House snarled at him, jerking his arm away, not even noticing that it was the one with the dressing.

Morrison quickly intervened. "After the driver was told that the two teens who stopped after the accident had made a statement on your behalf at the station, he withdrew the charge. I'm sure it would have been thrown out anyway, given the extenuating circumstances."

"So I don't have to worry about an assault charge. Thank you, you have just made my day SO much better. His withdrawing that just fixes everything, doesn't it?" House whipped around and stalked off.

Wilson opened his mouth to apologize, then closed it, deciding House had nothing to apologize for. "You'll let him know when the driver's trial is?" he asked.

Morrison nodded. "I'm sorry," she said again.

(H/C)

House spent the rest of the morning sitting by Cuddy's bedside, wiping her face with a cool cloth, watching her fight the infection that no doubt had entered her system with the damage to her colon. Wilson had brought in breakfast and made House take his morning meds, but the food tasted like sawdust in his mouth. The oncologist left after that, never going too far but giving House some symbolic space. House sat there for the next few hours trying to cool Cuddy down and remembering that they should have been spending this morning, before the parents arrived, discussing names. No, they _should _have been spending this morning at home and not in the damned hospital.

It was late morning when her fever finally began to fall, responding to the cooling measures and the new, stronger antibiotics. Cultures were still pending, but they were hitting her with high-powered coverage for all the likely suspects, and their efforts were starting to make a difference. House finally sat back in the chair, flexing stiff fingers, realizing that Cuddy had fallen into sleep. Good. She needed the rest.

He felt like he needed more himself. Last night, even dreamless, didn't seem to have touched the exhaustion in him at all, and his whole body felt heavy.

Wilson entered softly. "Hey, her temp is falling."

House nodded. "She's asleep." He stood up stiffly. "Going to make a pit stop and then go visit Rachel. I haven't seen her yet today with everything else. Will you stay here a little while?"

"Sure," the oncologist replied. After House came back, he'd go get them both lunch.

House limped into Pediatrics, wanting to test Jensen's theory but feeling like that night wasn't a great one to test it on. He had slept like a rock, no dreams at all, but he still didn't feel close to rested. Rachel was in the toy room, playing with an aide. She heard him and turned around, stretching her arms up from the floor and giving a happy laugh when she saw him.

The yellow cast almost seemed to expand off her right arm, seeming larger than she was, and House felt his pulse, breathing, and blood pressure skyrocket. His stomach twisted. All the memories crowded around the corners of his mind, pressing in, threatening to smother him. "Back in a minute, kid," he told her as he turned quickly around. A few strides down the hall, he ducked into the first bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before he vomited.

Five minutes and some deep breathing and cold water to the face later, he left the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, he turned back toward Pediatrics and forced himself to enter the room, to go across and talk to her, to smile and act normal, to push the visit as long as he could before he was forced to leave because he was afraid he was about to pass out. He left with a promise to send Wilson down later to bring Rachel up to Cuddy's room for a family visit when the parents arrived.

The anger at the drunk driver had almost been displaced for the moment by anger at himself.


	26. Chapter 26

And here we finally come to the "seed" of Onslaught, the first concept that my muse came up with and built a story around it. I never quite know where ideas or stories will come from, certainly not from me trying to suggest something to her. Suggestions almost never work, but usually there is one "kernel" from wherever it may have come that germinates and grows a story to surround it, first basic framework of the whole story, like a skeleton, and then the fleshing out of the precise words on the frame as the last step. She is a very active muse, if temperamental. I balked at this idea at first, but the more it built and expanded, the more it sucked me in. And yes, I, too, was left wondering as the framework developed "but WHAT happens next?" I get my own cliffhangers before you do, and just as much cliffhangers to me.

Fasten your seat belts, in case you hadn't yet.

Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

House and Wilson were in Cuddy's room watching her sleep and finishing a late lunch at Wilson's insistence. House agreed to the meds/Reuben combination finally, not wanting to confess his panic attack earlier, but he had no taste for the meal.

"Lisa." Susan Cuddy appeared in the door, her eyes riveted to her daughter. Cuddy looked so pale, so weak in the hospital bed.

House stood up. "Shhh. We're trying to let her sleep. She's had a rough morning."

Susan crossed over to him and gave him a firm hug, and Wilson stood there impressed as House accepted it. House's look to him over Susan's shoulder proclaimed that he thought he deserved a few bonus husband points for this, too, but he did not object or pull away. Just when he was beginning to wonder if Susan would ever let go or if he would have to proceed through the rest of life with his mother-in-law dangling from his front, she finally released him and stepped back. She frowned slightly. "Greg, are you all right yourself?"

"Banged up my left side on the car door, and I cut my wrist." He held out the bandaged forearm as proof. "That's all."

"You just look worn out."

"It's been a tough day. Tough two days."

Susan turned her attention back to her daughter and walked over softly to study her. "How's she doing?"

"She spiked a fever this morning. Still has a bit of a fever now, but it's a lot lower. The antibiotics are kicking in."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"She should be, but it will take a while. She had major surgery."

"And now, tell me about my new granddaughter. What's her name, by the way?"

House cringed. "She doesn't have one yet."

"But if she was born early yesterday, hadn't you had time to think about it? I know Lisa said last time I asked that you hadn't decided yet, but I'd think having her here would speed up the process."

"Lisa and I were going to talk about it this morning, but she wound up developing an infection instead. Between her and the baby's complications, I haven't had time."

That successfully changed the subject, as he had hoped. "What complications?"

"She started bleeding into her brain."

"My God. Is she going to be okay?"

House suddenly sagged, feeling the weight of the last few days crash down on him again. "I don't know, Susan. I can't tell you."

Wilson stepped smoothly into the gap. "Would you like to go see her, Mrs. Cuddy? You won't be able to hold her, and you'll have to be quiet, because it's easy to overwhelm them with too much going on at once. But I'd be glad to take you down there."

House gratefully dropped into the chair. "You two go on. I'll stay here with Lisa for the moment. Make sure Mozart is still down there."

"Mozart?" Susan was confused momentarily.

"I'll tell you on the way. Come on." Wilson looked back at House as he left, and House gave him a short nod of thanks. Once they were gone, he leaned his head into both hands and closed his eyes, wishing he could get some rest, wishing he could tell people looking for hope that his daughter would be all right, wishing he could rewind back to Thursday and suggest they all go to a different restaurant instead or take a different route home.

A tentative knock sounded at the door. "Greg?"

His head snapped up. Blythe stood in the doorway of the room. "Did I wake you up?"

"I wasn't asleep, Mom. Just thinking."

"Oh, Greg." Blythe was across the room as quickly as she could with her quad cane, and her hug even outscored Susan's on duration. "Are you okay? How are you holding up?"

"I'm just tired."

She studied him. "Did you sleep last night?"

"Yes, I did. A good solid nine hours' worth. It's just been a rough day. Lisa developed an infection this morning, and the baby started bleeding into her brain."

Blythe's eyes welled up. "Is the baby going to be okay?"

House sighed. "I don't know, Mom. I can't tell you."

Blythe was still fishing for details and hope five minutes later when he gave up and took her down to the NICU to enlist reinforcement from Wilson.

(H/C)

The rest of the day dealing with the two mothers was maddening. House more and more felt like just snapping in irritation at everybody, and then he again thought he should be handling things better. Susan and Blythe weren't acting anything beyond what he'd expected; why did they grate on him so much today?

In the middle of the afternoon, Cuddy woke up briefly, and Wilson went down to retrieve Rachel for an extended family visit. Cuddy was feeling better, though very weak from the fever on top of blood loss. She enjoyed tales of her daughter from the NICU, although she was secretly jealous that both her mother and her mother-in-law had physically seen her daughter when she couldn't yet. House sat mostly silently to the side, trying to breathe evenly, trying to keep his eyes off that nearly magnetic cast, and trying to control the remarks that suggested themselves in his head, remarks that even surpassed usual House snark. He bit them down and refrained from verbally spearing his relatives, but he was surprised at how much he wanted to. Finally, Cuddy drifted back off to sleep, and the two mothers suggested that the rest of them go out to dinner. House declined, claiming he wasn't hungry (with accompaniment of a glare from Wilson), and Blythe, Susan, and Wilson wound up agreeing to go to the cafeteria for a meal, Wilson promising to return Rachel to her room on the way and also promising to bring House back another Reuben.

Finally it was quiet again, just him sitting and watching Cuddy sleep, but the respite was short-lived. Wilson returned with Rachel barely a minute after he'd left. "House, I just got a stat page. One of my patients is crashing; got to get there ASAP. I can't take her back to Peds right now; just hold her until the women get back, okay? Thanks." Fully preoccupied with his patient and believing the situation here was stable at the moment, Wilson deposited Rachel in House's lap and left at a brisk trot.

House closed his eyes. The cast almost seemed to glow through the closed lids, and Rachel, thinking it was a game, reached up to explore his face with her hands, something she loved doing. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. Hold your daughter. Don't scare her. But he could almost hear the ghosts of the past filing into the room, memories pressing in on him. Opening his eyes, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

Jensen picked up on the second ring. "Dr. House. Have there been any new developments?" The psychiatrist had already called for an update in the middle of the morning's crises and gotten a brief and purely medical one.

"Not with them, but . . . could you come down here?" House kept his voice pitched soft, but Cuddy was solidly out.

Jensen was silent for a few seconds before replying absolutely steadily, his usual unflappable voice. "Of course. It will take me a little over two hours to get there."

House closed his eyes in relief as well as to keep from focusing on that damned cast. "I feel like everything's crashing in. I did get sleep last night, no dreams at all, over nine hours, but it didn't help any. I'm still fighting off the memories every time I look at Rachel. I'd . . . I'd like to talk to you. In person. I don't know how to deal with this."

"I'll leave right now," Jensen promised. "Soon as I tell Melissa and Cathy where I'm going."

"Thank you. I'll be in Cuddy's room, 338. We'll go to my office or somewhere."

"I'm coming. Hold on. See you soon." Jensen hung up.

House breathed a sigh of relief. Help. He knew suddenly that he needed help dealing with the onslaught of memories, as Jensen had so aptly called it. Frustration with himself wasn't working. Time to enlist a professional directly, not just by phone updates. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to look at Rachel. "Whatever's going on, Rachel, I'll work it out so I'll still be there for you," he told her. "Somehow, we'll get through it." She reached out to pat his arm, and he smiled at her, even while trying to remind himself to breathe.

"Still looking for somebody else to solve problems, are you? I was right. You never did really become a man."

House's head jerked around toward the door to the room, his red-rimmed, weary eyes widening in absolute horror, his already accelerated heart rate kicking into overdrive.

Standing in the door of the room, wearing his Marine dress uniform with the threads hanging from the missing decorations at the lapel, was John.


	27. Chapter 27

:) Yes, I'm evil.

Two things as the story continues. First, we are about to enter the Twilight Zone - sometimes. Parts of it will be "reality" (fanfiction style), parts not. You shouldn't have any problem distinguishing what's real and what's not; if you do, see your own psychiatrist. :) Second, this story from here on carries a strong warning for mention of abuse. I mean it; this one gets more up close and personal on things than any of the previous three. If that stuff bothers you, don't continue reading. Also, remember once again that the end of S5 did not happen in the Pranks universe.

Further up and further in, to quote C.S. Lewis!

(H/C)

House stared.

It was John, the John of his childhood, even looking younger again. His hair was no longer gray, his ramrod posture was as straight as if he were on parade, and his eyes had the glint that they had so many times during House's childhood, the glint that had only truly showed up when they were in private. Only two things marred his father's dressed-for-inspection appearance - the desecrated uniform with the decorations ripped out and the right earlobe, the one House had snipped off at the funeral, which was dripping blood on the hospital floor.

John laughed, the laugh that announced how much he was going to enjoy his future plans for his son. A sound House would never forget if he lived to 100. A sound that had always made his skin crawl.

"Cat got your tongue?"

House found his voice with difficulty. It grated like a car that resists starting on a cold morning. "You're . . . you're dead."

John shook his head. "Haven't you ever heard the old proverb, Greg, that as long as you are remembered, you live? I'm going to live a _long _time. As long as you do." He walked across the room, leaving a trail of blood from his ear, and reached out toward Rachel. "Nice kid. A bit young to start discipline, but just think of what she has to look forward to."

House lashed out, striking his father's arm away. "Leave her alone, you bastard!" Rachel reached up to grab his moving arm, thinking it was a game, and it was Rachel somehow who reawoke the logical side of House's brain from paralyzing shock. Rachel, looking only at him, playfully following his arm, never once looking toward John, not even when he had touched her. Rachel's cast seemed to have receded to normal size for the moment; John had replaced it as the focus of horror.

"I'm hallucinating," House stated. "She doesn't see you; you aren't here. You're dead."

"Ghosts never truly die, and I'll be haunting you to your own grave, Greg."

House shook his head, desperately trying to cling to logic. "There's an explanation. Has to be an explanation that makes sense. Differential for hallucinations . . ."

"You have totally lost it. Your mind has finally just crumpled up like the pathetic weakling you are. You can't take the stress, Greg; you're having a psychotic break, and you will be institutionalized for the rest of your life. Maybe they'll visit - out of pity."

He tried to keep his mind working, tried to ignore his father. "There's a medical explanation. Okay, proximal cause. The wreck - but Wilson checked me out."

"Stress from the wreck," John stated. He popped out of sight, only to reappear right behind House's shoulder, speaking almost directly in his ear. "You can't take it. Your brain that you are so proud of has totally thrown in the cards."

"Lack of sleep." House tried desperately to keep processing, working frantically on a mental whiteboard. "But it hasn't been that long, even with stress, and I _did _get sleep last night. Nine hours. With the pills, but I've used them for months." Once again, the thought tickled the back of his brain that that had not been a normal, familiar reaction to the zolpidem. He usually felt worlds better after a solid night out under the pills; this morning, he had felt worse, and he remembered suddenly the difficulty Wilson had had waking him up, _nine_ hours after he had taken the dose. "Not lack of sleep. Not just lack of sleep. There's something else."

"Stress," John reminded him, at his other elbow now. "You just can't cope with it."

House continued down his mental whiteboard. "MS. No, not presenting out of nowhere to severe in two days. Vicodin . . . I'm actually using _less_ lately, taking it on schedule, have been for months. Liver enzymes were better a month ago. Should have had problems before, not now."

"No, you don't even have the excuse of drugs," John put in. "You just can't handle it. You're not going to be there for your family, Greg. In fact, they're going to have to be there for you."

He closed his eyes, fighting to ignore his father. Keep thinking, keep thinking. What other symptoms have you noticed the last two days?

Stiffness, but that was explained fully by the legitimate severe bruising on the left side. He stretched out his legs, assessing, and suddenly frowned slightly. His body felt _heavy_. It had all day, his whole body, not just the left. Pain from his thigh pulsed through, but most of him felt almost numb. And what if the difficulty he was having walking, worse today than yesterday, wasn't just due to bruises?

Difficulty controlling his thoughts and memories. Altered sensation in the body. Balance slightly off. Irritability, growing worse. Difficulty being woken up. Nausea and one episode of outright vomiting. Altered taste - nothing had tasted right today. Hallucinations.

_Oh God. _

But there hadn't been a head injury. He remembered the crash. Except . . . for the first time, he recalled that he did _not_ remember the second impact, the stronger one against the light post, the one that had done most of the damage. He did not remember being airborne across the intersection. He remembered the blow on his side of the car, and then he remembered collecting his senses after it was all over. He had thought he was just dazed, having trouble taking it all in, but he remembered now wondering on Thursday night what had happened to the right side of the car and having to work it out from evidence.

There had been no witnesses to the crash. What if what he thought was a few seconds of sensory overload had actually been unconsciousness lasting longer? How could he know how long it had taken him to react?

But there should be pain. There was actually less pain overall the last two days, other than the thigh pulsing through the clouds.

But he had been dealing with one continuous stream of crises as a distraction, and he was on a heavy pain regime anyway, one on which he hadn't missed a dose.

"You're wrong," John sneered. "You're just folding up like a house of cards. It isn't physical; you've officially gone insane."

For the first time anybody had done it after the wreck, House reached up to his head and explored with his fingers, palpating around his skull, finding the bump that nobody in all of it had looked for. He pressed lightly and jumped, feeling the pain that the Vicodin, stress, and NSAIDs had been keeping at bay.

NSAIDs. Prescription-strength NSAIDs, which had an antiplatelet effect. He hadn't missed a dose of them. For the first time, he realized how heavy his head felt, like the rest of his body had today.

Jensen was right. It was physical, all of it, and once again, as with his leg, he had missed putting the puzzle together. He'd been trying to cope with things from a purely psychiatric standpoint when they were not purely or even primarily psychiatric. Of course it hadn't been working.

John was still speaking, but House tuned him out. He reached urgently for his cell phone and stared at the depleted battery bar - it hadn't been charged in two days, and he had several sessions by phone with Jensen on it. He remembered now hearing a warning beep during his recent short call with Jensen. Hopefully enough for a text, at least. He sent a text to Wilson - _Need you ASAP. Think I'm hurt. Need an MRI. H._ That ought to bring Wilson on a gallop, crashing patient or not.

"You're wrong," John emphasized. "You're just pathetic. Always have been."

The room was starting to shimmer around the edges, and House suddenly realized the smell that pervaded everything. No time to wait for Wilson. He reached out to hit the call button.

Rachel. He was holding Rachel. Couldn't let her be hurt when he went down.

"I'll be glad to take her," John offered, stretching out his hands.

House turned to the bed and lurched to his feet - balance definitely off, getting worse all day, and nobody had noticed it due to two injured legs. "Lisa. LISA!" He put Rachel on the bed. "Lisa, you've got to wake up."

Cuddy stirred and slowly dragged her eyes open. The fever was down to just low grade, but it had swept like a forest fire through her today, leaving her already weak strength in ashes. So hard to wake up right now. "Greg?" Her eyes opened wider, looking at him, as a surge of adrenaline hit her. "Greg, what's wrong?"

"You've got to take Rachel. Just a while." He pushed their daughter securely onto the bed, jostling Cuddy's abdomen, but the fear in his eyes overrode the pain in her body. Her arms automatically came out to surround the girl, even though it hurt.

"Greg . . ."

His words were starting to sound slurred, as if he'd been drinking. "They're coming. Don't let her fall . . ."

"GREG!" Cuddy tried to sit up, blasted back by the pain, and she stabbed urgently at the button herself.

House crumpled to the floor in a full seizure, and his last coherent thought was satisfaction that even if John had him, he had kept him from harming their daughter.


	28. Chapter 28

Thanks for the reviews, readers! I do play fair. I clearly indicated right back at the crash scene chapter that House didn't remember all of it, and there have been clues to every one of his list of symptoms since.

I don't come up with ideas, my muse does, so I'm sometimes not entirely sure where a story seed came from, but I think this one probably in part was inspired not only by the awful end of S5 which I wanted to redo (have trouble believing there weren't SOME physical injury contributions to those hallucinations, whether DBS or bike wreck or both), but also by the wonderful scene on the bus with Amber and House at the end of Wilson's Heart. House, keep in mind, had a discussion with Cuddy during You Raise Me Up in which he told her about his hallucination of Amber while he was in a coma. Remember that. Eventually, Cuddy will.

Enjoy 28.

(H/C)

Wilson was in deep and sympathetic conference with the family. "We'll keep her as comfortable as we can on morphine this evening, but all other measures will be withdrawn. I realize this is a difficult decision, but I appreciate your courage in making it."

The son nodded. "She's fought so hard - but she's just tired now. And it wouldn't be much longer, would it? Even if she hadn't had complications this afternoon?"

"I'm afraid not. Another month, tops. I'm sure she would appreciate you honoring her wishes." The oncologist's warm, brown eyes were sympathetic.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Wilson. She thinks a lot of you." He hesitated slightly on the word thinks, and Wilson saw the hard realization in his eyes that in just a few hours, he would be referring to his mother in the past tense. Even with a long and drawn-out illness so that eventual death was expected, it was hard to be brought face to face with the fact that eventually has become now, that this truly was it.

The daughter-in-law suddenly caught her breath in a sob, and the son hugged her, blinking his own brimming eyes.

"I'll be around in the hospital the rest of the evening," Wilson stated. "If you need anything at all, please, let me know."

Right then, his phone chirped with a text message, and Wilson pulled it out with an apologetic expression and looked down at the screen.

His gaze froze. The son and daughter-in-law looked at each other, momentarily distracted from their own imminent grief by the shocked horror in his eyes. "Dr. Wilson? Is something wrong?"

Wilson shoved the cell phone back into his pocket. "Sorry, got to go. Emergency with another patient. I'll check back in later." All that was called over his shoulder; he was already gone around the corner by the time they could reply.

The stairs had never seemed so long. His mind seemed to be running even faster than his legs, repeating the last few days, remembering how pale and ill - not just tired, but _ill_ - House had looked today. Why on earth hadn't he seen that something truly was wrong? House shouldn't have to diagnose himself after an accident that had done so much damage to others. Wilson should have insisted on a full workup in the ER.

He heard Cuddy's shriek as he exited the stairwell onto her floor, and the sound lent extra wings to his feet. Rachel was tuning up now, starting to cry, but Cuddy's repeated calls for help were just as loud around it. Everybody nearby who wasn't involved with something urgent dropped their current task and ran.

A nurse was first into the room, with Wilson a short head behind. House was on the floor beside the bed in the middle of a grand mal seizure, and Cuddy, with a terrified Rachel in her arms, was held to the bed only by her daughter's presence, not by her injuries. Wilson had no doubt that if not for fear of dropping Rachel, she would have already been on the floor next to House, stitches and all.

"Get me some Ativan stat!" Wilson shouted as he sprinted across the room. The nurse had already rolled House over, trying to cradle his head and keep him from hitting it on either the bedside table or the wheels of the bed, both of which were dangerously close. Wilson tried to help hold him, and then an aide was bending over all of them, injecting the Ativan. Slowly the convulsions stopped.

Rachel showed no signs of stopping. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, her wide eyes fixed in horror on her dad. "Get her out of here! Take her back down to Pediatrics," Wilson ordered. He quickly checked House's carotid pulse and frowned. Too weak, too fast, and not totally even.

An aide extricated Rachel from Cuddy and left the room, the crying audible clear down the hall as if the volume knob were being gradually turned down. In the next second, two nurses had hold of Cuddy, who had attempted to get up the instant her daughter was pulled free. Cuddy fought them like a wildcat, desperate to get down and check on House herself, desperate to do _something._ The fresh major surgery was forgotten, the fever weakness from today forgotten. "Dr. Cuddy, you can't get up," an aide insisted. "You'll rip your stitches! You aren't strong enough."

"Do something, damn it!" Cuddy pushed back against the confining hands. "Let go of me."

The second syringe of Ativan in as many minutes made a rapid appearance in the room, and Cuddy was still struggling as the drug claimed her. She fell backwards into unconsciousness, defeated.

Wilson and the first nurse, ignoring the tableau being played out above them, had straightened House out on the floor. Airway, breathing, and circulation all present, although none of his numbers looked good. He was sweating, and his skin was clammy. He also had finished the progressive journey over the last two days to looking just as pale as his wife. Wilson pulled up an eyelid to flash the penlight, and his stomach twisted. If he had had time for it, he thought he might have actually vomited on the spot. He quickly compared with the other pupil. Still never taking his eyes off House, he called, "We need a gurney stat. MRI, and I don't care who you have to bump to get him in. Page Neurosurgery, have OR ready." House obviously had an acute brain injury, almost certainly a bleed judging from the look of things, but they had to know the exact location and details before opening the skull. Wilson spread his fingers and ran them through the graying chestnut hair, finding the bump and exploring it.

The gurney was jogged in by a team of staff, and they quickly lifted House onto it. That quickly, he was gone from the room.

Wilson stood up and looked over at Cuddy. "Give her some more morphine," he ordered in a shaky tone. "Make sure she stays out until we have definite news; if she wakes up before House is out of surgery, she'll be trying to get up again."

"I will, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson walked out of the room, hearing the floor almost echo with the remembered screams of a few minutes ago. Near silence had rushed in oppressively to fill the vacuum. He walked with even professionalism as far as the door to the stairwell, but once through it, he slumped and buried his face against the wall, feeling hot tears well up. "Please, God, don't let this be happening. How much more can he take?"

If God knew, he didn't answer. After a few minutes, Wilson forced his shaky legs to resume motion, and he headed down to the MRI room.

(H/C)

Jensen had made excellent time from Middletown. He entered PPTH with smooth speed and found room 338, but Cuddy alone was there. She was deeply asleep, artificially deeply asleep, although judging from the monitors, she was stable, with only a low-grade fever remaining. Jensen pulled out his cell phone and called House's, but it went to voicemail. After a moment's hesitation, he called Wilson's cell instead.

It rang five times before the oncologist picked up. "Hello." His tone was tight and strained.

"James? I'm down in Dr. Cuddy's room."

"You're _here_?"

"Yes. Dr. House called me a little over two hours ago and asked that I come down, but he's not in Dr. Cuddy's room where he said he would be. Do you know where he is?"

"He called you?"

"Yes. What's wrong, James?"

Wilson sighed. "I'm in the observation room of OR 6. Ask somebody to show you the way." Without farewell, the oncologist hung up.

The tide of concern rising, Jensen quickly asked a passing aide for directions. A few minutes later, he was entering the observation room. Wilson was the sole occupant, and he was sitting with shoulders slumped, looking absolutely defeated, casting hesitant glances at the monitor screen as if he were afraid to watch and more afraid to turn away. Jensen looked down into the room below, confirming his worst fear, then turned back to Wilson. "What happened?"

"Apparently, he damaged two vessels in his brain at the time of the accident. He's had a gradually progressing bleed since then over the last two days, building up pressure. An hour and a half ago, he collapsed in Cuddy's room and started seizing. MRI showed a significant hemorrhage. They've drained the blood; now they're doing microsurgery to repair the vessels." Wilson buried his face in his hands. "If anybody had thoroughly checked him out, if we'd done the MRI Thursday night, it would have been simple to fix. But nobody, not _one_ person, gave him a complete evaluation for a head injury, when he had visible cuts on his face and had obviously hit something. Instead, for two days straight, I've been treating someone with an acute brain bleed by making absolutely sure he kept taking painkillers and anticoagulants and by trying to encourage him to sleep." He ground the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I can't believe I call myself a doctor."

Jensen himself was shocked. He pulled the next chair over a little closer to Wilson's and sat down. "This probably is medically relevant at this point. He's been having significant problems controlling his thoughts and memories since the crash. When he called me a few hours ago, he clearly thought he was on the edge of a complete breakdown, and I was afraid he was right. Obviously, the root problem was physical, not psychiatric."

Wilson nodded. "I'd noticed myself that he was very snappy today, irritable, but who wouldn't be? He's been dealing with multiple family members having complications, he had to talk to the police . . . it never occurred to me that there was a physical cause beyond being tired. But this morning. . ." Wilson shook his head. "I had an awful time waking him up. I know what he's like the morning after the zolpidem. That was _not_ normal, not for nine hours later. He should have been recharged, and instead, it took me a few minutes to get any response at all. His speech wasn't clear at first. And I ignored it. Everybody else was crashing right then. He seemed functional once the adrenaline hit."

"It's not your fault," Jensen replied. "It sounds like there has been enough error to go around the hospital - you couldn't have been the only doctor who didn't get a complete exam on him. I dropped a clue myself, something he said once that implied that he did not completely remember the events of the accident. I questioned that, and he brushed it off, but I failed to follow up on the point, and I should have. But if this whole situation is anybody's fault, it's the drunk driver's."

Wilson nodded. "I know, but . . . I shouldn't have missed things. I should have _been _there."

Jensen looked over at him. "You're as bad as he is about trying to make the present a replay of the past. You thought this crisis was your chance to atone for leaving after Amber, didn't you?"

Wilson sighed and nodded after a moment. "Rip-roaring success that was."

Jensen considered following that up, then dropped it. This wasn't the time, not with House on the table below them in the middle of brain surgery. "What's the prognosis?" Jensen asked.

The oncologist shook his head. "There was a lot of pressure. There might be brain damage. We'll just have to wait and see."

Jensen flinched but didn't reply. After another few minutes, Wilson's lips twitched briefly in a bittersweet, humorless smile. "He knew what was wrong at the end, I think. He'd figured it out himself. He sent me an urgent page that he needed an MRI, and then he apparently handed Rachel to Cuddy right before he collapsed and started seizing. He had Rachel when I left, but Cuddy had her when he fell, not on the edge of the bed but directly on top of her, held tight. She's not strong enough to get her into that position right now and wouldn't have with the stitches anyway; he had to have put her there. He knew he was going down, but he knew by then he wasn't just falling apart."

Jensen was glad of it. He still remembered House's voice, tight and frightened, a couple of hours ago. At that point, he'd been convinced he was breaking down mentally. Jensen was glad that fear had been alleviated, maybe giving House a little bit better anchor to hold onto in the upcoming physical battle.

They sat quietly watching the surgery for a few minutes. House's vitals weren't entirely stable, and the OR team kept having to pause to adjust meds. After a little while, Wilson looked over at the psychiatrist. "You came down here for him."

"Of course, once he asked me to."

"I mean, it's obvious that his problems the last few days haven't been psychiatric after all. Are you going back to Middletown?"

Jensen shook his head. Not only was he deeply concerned about House, but he could tell that Wilson needed if not a psychiatrist at least a friend at the moment. The oncologist had been trying to be the strong one for two days, and he was mentally as well as physically worn out by it. "I'll stay for the moment," he replied. "I'll get a hotel room in Princeton somewhere. I'll be around."

Wilson gave a sigh of release. He still felt guilty, but he felt a little less alone. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jensen replied. He looked up at the monitor. "He means a lot to me by now. You both do."

Wilson glanced away from the monitor, then back. House's brain, that incredibly genius brain, undergoing operation on the table below. "He means a lot to all of us."

He only hoped he'd get a chance to tell House that in the future and to receive an impatient shoulder twitch and an eye roll in response.


	29. Chapter 29

Wilson and Jensen sat mostly silently, watching, but Wilson had never been so glad to have company. Jensen always had had a calming effect on just about anybody; House responded so well to him. Wilson was impressed that House had called the psychiatrist in personally. Even if his theory had been proven wrong, when he had thought his mind was crumbling, he had been seeking help, not denying, not running. That was itself a tremendous statement of his progress over the last months in therapy.

House's mind . . . Wilson tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

The surgery finally was winding to a close below them. At that moment, the door to the observation room opened, and Wilson turned to see Cameron enter. She hesitated, looking from Wilson to Jensen, obviously surprised that he had company.

"This is Michael Jensen, my psychiatrist," Wilson stated. "House treated his daughter once. This is Dr. Allison Cameron."

The two shook hands, and Cameron studied the psychiatrist. "I remember you from the wedding now."

"He saved my daughter's life," Jensen replied, silently impressed at Wilson's effort to preserve House's privacy.

"He had to think a lot of you to invite you, though. He's saved hundreds of people, and he didn't ask them." Cameron looked away from Jensen, back down below. "How is he?"

Wilson sighed. "They're finishing up. He's been a little unstable during the surgery, but they got the damage fixed. We won't know on long-term effects until he wakes up."

Cameron shook her head. "I checked him out Thursday night, up here, actually. I had to chase him down while he was distracted with Cuddy's surgery. I keep going back to it, using the penlight, and the first impression was that his pupils were reactive, but I'd barely gotten that first impression when he jerked his head away. That was when they told him they needed to do a hysterectomy, and . . . " And she had been touched by his emotional stress, not his physical, and gotten distracted, jumping tracks on the focus of her efforts to help. "I never completed the exam. I never looked for a bump on the head."

"Neither did I," Wilson stated, "and I actually had a cooperative and willing patient. You at least thought to use a penlight. The bleed was just starting Thursday night; the signs in his eyes would have been easier to miss. Although all of us let him down." He stood, looking down into the room. "Damn it."

Jensen was beginning to wonder if the entire staff of PPTH had guilt complexes. Right then, the speaker clicked on. "We're moving him straight to ICU, Dr. Wilson. We left an intracranial pressure monitor in. All done on the repair, but I think he's in a coma. We'll be able to judge that better when anesthesia totally wears off."

"Right. I'll be down to ICU in a few minutes." He turned back to Cameron. "Now I get to go talk to his mother and mother-in-law." His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of that Herculean task.

"How did they take his collapse?" Jensen asked, curious. He'd met both at the wedding, and of course, he had extremely strong impressions of Blythe from earlier. He couldn't imagine her standing back calmly out of the way.

"They weren't there. Thank God." Between a hysterical Rachel and a near hysterical Cuddy, the scene in that room had been bad enough. "They had gone to the cafeteria. They're in the family waiting room now. Want to come with me?" His tone was hopeful, and Jensen nodded. The two of them left the room, and Cameron was left alone. She looked down at the just-vacated operating table below, and she thought back to Thursday night, in this same OR observation room, where for the _second_ time in the last few years, she had missed diagnosing the full extent of a head injury on him. Cameron dropped into Wilson's vacated chair and buried her face in her hands.

(H/C)

Blythe looked at Wilson in disbelief. "You mean _nobody _had ever really checked him out?"

The oncologist nodded, eyes falling to the floor. It sounded negligent even to himself; he had to agree with her shocked disbelief. "There was so much else going on," he started in lame excuse, then trailed off. He could have pointed out House's less-than-cooperative temperament, but the medical fact remained. Anybody involved in a crash that severe should have been thoroughly examined in the ER.

"But is he going to be all right?" Susan demanded.

"We don't know. We'll have to wait and see."

"That's the same answer he gave us on the baby. Wait and see." Worried frustration was rising in Susan's voice. "This is a _hospital!_ You're supposed to be able to fix people."

Jensen smoothly stepped into the fray. "No doctor is omnipotent. If they were, people would never die at all. But the important matter here isn't whose fault it is, which even if determined wouldn't make any difference to Dr. House or Dr. Cuddy right now. The important thing is what _we_ can do to help them at the moment. They're going to need us."

Blythe immediately perked up. "So what could we do, Dr. Jensen?"

"It's been shown that people in comas are sometimes aware of what's going on in the outside world. I'd suggest setting up shifts and having somebody stay with him, talk to him and encourage him, even though he isn't responding." Jensen looked over at Wilson. "Would you agree with that medically?"

"Yes. It's a good idea. I'd also suggest having at least one person with Cuddy all the time, trying to keep her still. She isn't going to be thinking of herself anymore, and she really isn't well enough to be doing anything except resting." In fact, Wilson thought Cuddy was going to give them a lot of problems, but no point disrupting the changed mood at the moment. They'd cross that bridge when they came to it. "And Rachel . . . Rachel was terrified. Somebody could play with her and visit her regularly, try to distract her. There's not much additional we could do for the baby right now; her case is purely medical, and NICU is right on top of it. But Rachel knows something's wrong now."

Jensen laid it out in a matter-of-fact tone, avoiding emotion and sticking with pure logistics. "So, we have four of us, if you all don't mind my help. If we divide up into shifts, that leaves one person with each of the three of them and one getting some rest at all times. We do need to be careful to keep taking care of ourselves in the middle of it all; we can't repeat his own error of ignoring himself. But I think we can make some difference with them by being there. Are you two willing to help us on that?"

"Of course," Blythe stated, and Susan nodded. They were both ready to start that minute, relieved to have assignments. Wilson shook his head slightly, admiring again how quickly Jensen could divert the emotional course of a conversation.

"From a medical perspective, do you have any suggestions who starts where first, Dr. Wilson?"

"I really think I need to be the one with Cuddy when she wakes up. She'll want the full medical explanation. I can give that best." Susan had started to object, then hesitated. It did make sense.

"You could go to Rachel," Jensen suggested to Susan. "Dr. Wilson is right; he needs to be the first one to talk to her, but you can help your granddaughter. She's probably asleep now, but she might sleep better being rocked and held."

"And I'll be the first one to sit with Greg," Blythe stated.

"I'll go take a hotel room at the nearest hotel," Jensen stated. "Have either of you gotten a hotel room yet?" Blythe and Susan shook their heads. "In that case, I'd suggest all of us using that one room in turn. It would give us each a break from the hospital, which we will all need, but keep us close by in case the situation changes. Would you agree with that?"

Both of the women nodded. "Thank you for joining us in this," Blythe said.

"I'm glad to help. And everybody remember, if something does come up medically, the best thing you can do is to step back, stay calm, and let the staff do their jobs. You _will _be helping by doing that. Okay, does everybody understand what we need to do?" Nods all around, and then the women started out of the waiting room, purposeful strides, heading for their respective hospital rooms. Wilson exhaled loudly and looked at Jensen.

"Thank you."

Jensen put a hand on his shoulder. "Blame doesn't make any difference, James. Trying to do something productive might. Remember that, okay?"

Wilson nodded. "I'll try. But it's hard."

"I know. I'll see you in a few hours."

Together they walked out of the room, splitting up at the first intersection, Jensen heading down to the lobby and Wilson, with increasingly slow steps, going to Cuddy.

(H/C)

He was running.

Smooth, efficient, uninhibited running, his legs working like pistons beneath him. The reach of each stride was as euphoric as any drug.

Fog was all around, pressing in, seemingly inside his mind as well as in his environment. He thought there was something important he needed to be doing, something he'd forgotten, but he couldn't recall. So for the moment, he ran, slicing smoothly through the fog, unsure where he was going, only knowing he was going _somewhere_ on two good legs.

Why did that surprise him? Didn't he have two good legs?

No, of course he didn't. Disorganized memories coalesced in his mind, and his smooth stride abruptly faltered as he remembered the pain. He lurched to a halt. The right thigh felt like an angry creature was gnawing at it, and he took a tentative step, bracing it with his hand. There ought to be a cane to help him. There ought to be _something_ to help him. But there wasn't.

Should have stayed back with the pure joy of running. Shouldn't have tried to _think._

But he needed to think. There was something else he'd forgotten, not just his leg. Somebody needed him. Who? His mind wouldn't hold on the impression. He couldn't focus, and it annoyed him. But he knew there was somebody somewhere.

Think. Think of one person's name. Think of anybody you've ever known. The names flitted around the edge of his mind, taunting him, barely out of reach.

He looked around. Gray, swirling fog, inside and out. Such an odd place. Nothing seemed tangible. "Is anybody here?" he called.

"Of course." The reply came instantly, and the voice awoke a visceral response in him. Fear. Helplessness. Pain.

John stepped out of the mist, pristine in his desecrated uniform. "I'm here. I'll always be here."

He shook his head. "You're not the only one. There's somebody else." He _knew _he wasn't alone. He remembered the feeling of being alone, and he remembered the difference.

"Do you see anybody else here? They all gave up on you. It's just the two of us now." John stepped forward, seeming to grow taller with each step, looming over him. "And you know what that means? Nobody can interrupt us. We have a lot to go over, Greg."

He cringed. His father's shadow was falling over him. "Why is it just us? There's somebody else," he insisted.

"Not anymore. Actually, they didn't give up, although they would have soon. You're the one who left them."

He looked around again, puzzled. This wasn't right. He knew it wasn't right. "Am I dead?"

John drew ever closer, and he tried to retreat, but the smooth piston legs of moments ago had vanished. His awkward, unsupported limp wasn't fast enough. John's hands stretched out. "Even better than being dead. You're in hell, Greg."

He shook his head again, wishing he could remember. He knew he wasn't alone anymore. This wasn't right. "No. There isn't a hell, and if there is, it isn't foggy. It's burning, hot."

"I didn't say this was the only hell. But it's yours. You'll be here forever, and I'll be sure to keep you company."

The hands closed on him.


	30. Chapter 30

Wilson sat beside Cuddy's bed, waiting. Ironic that he was sitting here wishing that House would wake up and that she would not, at least not yet. He had another syringe of Ativan ready, but he hoped he wouldn't have to resort to it.

She seemed stable now, at least. Her fever was down to 101, blood pressure better than it had been earlier. The antibiotics were working.

She stirred slightly, her mouth tightening. Wilson leaned forward in the chair. "Cuddy?" She groaned in reply. "Cuddy? Come on, wake up."

Her eyes popped open suddenly, and she tried to launch herself off the bed, but he was ready for her. He was on his feet instantly and pushing down on her shoulders, pinning her to the mattress.

"Greg! My God, what . . ." Her eyes roamed the room frantically, fixed on everything except the oncologist directly leaning over her.

"I'll tell you all about him if you stay still," Wilson bargained.

She shook her head vigorously. "You'll tell me all about him if you want to keep your job."

"He's stable now. There's nothing you can do at the moment, and you're still in initial recovery from surgery and an infection anyway. Hurting yourself won't help him."

"Wilson, tell me WHAT HAPPENED." Her voice was rising, as was her heart rate.

Wilson sighed. "He had a brain bleed. They operated and drained it, and his ICP is holding steady now."

She abruptly stopped trying to rise, pinned to her bed by horror. "His ICP was up?"

"Yes." Significantly, though he didn't say that.

"Why? Stroke?"

"No. He was injured in the accident."

Her eyes locked onto his. "You said you were looking out for him."

He cringed before her gaze, but he offered no excuse. He had none. She was right; he had promised her he was keeping an eye on House physically. "I'm sorry," he stated, and they both jumped slightly and looked around, but House wasn't there to hear and object.

Cuddy's anger started to expand, easily sufficient to blast Wilson and the rest of her hospital, too. "Didn't anybody check him out in the ER?"

"Cameron did, but not in the ER. He wouldn't stay; they took you to surgery."

"I wasn't in surgery for two days," she snapped. "You can't tell me there wasn't a single opportunity."

She was right. He couldn't. "I'm sorry."

"How bad of a bleed was it, Wilson?"

"Pretty bad. They fixed the vessels, though, and ICP is stable now."

"Has he woken up?" He didn't answer. "Wilson! _Has he woken up?_"

He shook his head. "He's in a coma."

She pushed back up suddenly, trying to rise. "I need to see him."

"Maybe in a few days, when you're healed up more. He'll probably be awake by then anyway."

She shook her head, her efforts increasing. "I need to see him _now_."

"You're not up to it. I'm sorry." This wasn't being interfering; this was absolute medical fact. She wasn't out of the woods yet. She needed at least a few more days of healing before moving around, and any doctor on the planet would have agreed.

Any doctor except herself. Cuddy refused to give in, and finally, reluctantly, he used the Ativan. She was still cursing at him when she lost consciousness.

(H/C)

It was late Sunday. Jensen's shift method was working remarkably well as he organized everyone with the efficiency of an Army quartermaster. Wilson, still numb at it all, was glad to hand over the reins of responsibility. Cuddy had had to be kept sedated; they were talking about letting her see House in a few more days, but for the moment, she wasn't going to stay in bed voluntarily. Rachel was enjoying the attention but was subdued and kept looking around with wide eyes, asking everyone who came in, "Dada?" The baby was holding stable with just a Grade II intraventricular hemorrhage, no worse at least. House himself had odd peaks and drops in vitals, almost as if he were exercising at intervals in his coma, but he showed no signs of responsiveness to anything.

It was Wilson's turn with House at the moment, just back from a nap for several hours in his office. He had insisted on that instead of the hotel room, but Jensen had insisted he get some down time, wherever it might be. He was feeling a little better physically for it, but mentally and emotionally, he still vacillated between anger at the drunk driver and blame of himself.

"You need to snap out of this, House," he admonished, staring out the window. "Do you know what people are starting to do? They're starting to send _flowers._ Yep, flowers. If you don't wake up soon, I'm not sure if I can hold them off with the balloons. You'd hate this."

A monitor beeped behind him, and he spun around hopefully, but House still hadn't shifted. His vitals had, though, the temperature abruptly spiking. Wilson hurried back to the bed and for some reason took his friend's temperature manually, resting his hand across his forehead, as if the electronic monitor were less reliable than his touch. Damn it. He hit the button and called for antibiotics, then started going over his friend carefully, wondering if there was anything else they might have missed, even though he'd been assured that House had been thoroughly examined now.

No problems around the surgery site, although he unwound the head dressing and directly inspected the incision. That looked good. No unseen injuries he could find, although the deep bruising on the left leg now was in full Technicolor. Finally, Wilson was left with the wrist dressing, which he unwrapped. There was the culprit, the stitched gash looking red and inflamed, streaks starting to fan out. God only knew what had been on the twisted car door metal. Wilson made another urgent call for antibiotics, but that nurse was trailed a few minutes later by an aide carrying frozen packs to place on House's neck, groin, and armpits.

"You can't use those!" Wilson objected.

"I saw he was heading for 104," the aide replied. "I just thought . . . okay, if you think otherwise, Dr. Wilson." She started to turn around.

Wait a minute. If they used ice, House would flip out, but on the other hand, maybe that would reach through to snatch him out of his coma. Any response had to beat total unresponsiveness. "No, leave them here, but I'll do it," Wilson replied. The nurse and the aide exchanged surprised glances at the abrupt reversal from annoyance to calculation. "I said I'll do it. Go ahead and leave."

After they left them alone, Wilson went over to pull the blinds on the glass door of the ICU room, and then he came back and picked up the first chemical ice pack in his hands. "House, I've got ice," he stated. "Cold, frigid ice. I know you aren't going to like this, but just remind me how much you hate it, okay?" He moved up to stick the pack in an armpit, not even bothering to stay out of range. He would welcome a blow. "There is it, so go ahead and hit me."

Nothing. House was motionless.

"I'm right here waiting. You nearly broke my jaw last time; see if you can go all the way now." Wilson added the second pack, the third, all the others in rapid succession, his anger and voice rising. "Hit me, damn it. Straight on the jaw. Knock me over. Do _something!_"

House was motionless. Wilson placed the last pack and then gave a defeated sigh. "Are you even in there? Don't you want to hit me?"

Nothing. After a minute, Wilson turned away, clenching his hands together to hide the face that they were shaking. Tears of anger as well as defeat spilled over. Wherever House was, it was too far away for the outside world to reach.

(H/C)

Ice. So far, John's hands had struck him, broken his fingers, and twisted his ankle already, but abruptly, John got a new gleam in his eye, and in the next second, a bathtub appeared out of the fog, a bathtub filled with ice. House shivered.

"Get in, you weakling. And what do you say to me?"

"Thank you, sir." House managed to choke the words out. He stepped over the side. The cold almost burned at first, and then it seemed to reach through his skin, permeating his being. So cold.

"Do you like that, Greg? Answer me. Speak up when I'm talking to you."

He gulped. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." He arched his back, trying to let a few more inches of him escape, and John's heavy, powerful hands pushed on his shoulders.

"All the way down, Greg." He thought of resisting, then gave in, settling back all the way into the ice. It seemed forever before John pulled him out, and then he barely had time to be grateful, to start to think it was over, before he was picked up bodily and dropped back in, gasping for mercy, trying not to cry.

Ice.


	31. Chapter 31

Cuddy opened her eyes slowly. She still felt the remnants of the last round of sedatives in her system, weighing her down, and she struggled to focus, but she felt clearer than she had in a few days, a bit stronger physically. Jensen was sitting in the chair next to her, and he looked over as she stirred.

"How are you feeling?"

"Frustrated," she said. "How is Greg?" She'd already realized on the shift system that Jensen was the one who gave her the most complete information.

"He spiked a fever suddenly late yesterday afternoon. Infection of the cut on his wrist, but it's responding quickly to treatment, and his temperature is back down now, although not yet normal." Jensen left out the tale of the ice, which Wilson had shamefacedly confessed to him. Certainly not the strategy Jensen himself would have used, though he understood the frustration and worry that sparked it. He was, however, just as disappointed as Wilson was that there hadn't been any reaction. House was far, far under, apparently.

"He still hasn't woken up?"

"Not yet."

She struggled to sit up, and Jensen pushed her back down, although he did raise the head of the bed somewhat for her. "I need to see him."

"We've been talking about that, actually. Your own fever is completely gone, your white count a lot better, and your stitches are looking better. Dr. Wilson had thought you might be moved in with him tomorrow."

"I might have been moved in with him right after surgery," Cuddy snapped.

Jensen shook his head. "Actually, there were medical reasons behind that, for him as well as you. Not only were you yourself still in acute recovery from your injuries, but he was worried about Dr. House."

Cuddy shook her head in frustration. "I wouldn't hurt him."

"You were actively fighting an infection that apparently originated from contamination from the colon injury and were still running a fever. He has an open drain site and ICP monitor tracking straight into the brain. Dr. Wilson has all of us taking extreme precautions to wash up before going in to visit him. Fortunately, the wrist infection he developed from the cut from the car was caught in the early stages of going systemic and didn't hit the brain, but nobody with any kind of active infection needs to be close to him right now. It would be very easy for him to get encephalitis."

Cuddy blinked. She hadn't even thought of that one. "Wilson could have said so."

"He tends to react emotionally, even if based on logical reasons. I doubt he even wanted to mention the chance of encephalitis to you, so you wouldn't start worrying about that. And purely from your own point of view, you did need to rest and start healing. You weren't in good enough shape physically for that much added stress."

"But I'm better now?" She made it a question.

"You're doing a lot better the last two days. They're talking about moving you in tomorrow, like I said. This is Monday night, by the way."

She sighed. "How are the girls?"

"Rachel is okay but worried. She knows something is wrong."

Cuddy smiled suddenly. "Greg passed her off to me, right before he . . ." She gulped. The sight of House collapsing in front of her into seizures on the floor was one that would stay with her a long time. "The last thing he was thinking of was not to drop her when he fell."

"He really is an excellent father."

"Yes. What about the baby?"

"They're still having sudden drops in saturation at times. Nothing unexpected. Nothing worse than what there was. Her bleed is stable."

Cuddy closed her eyes. "I want to erase this whole past week."

"Just imagine the stories you'll have 10 years down the road when you're celebrating your daughter's future birthdays."

Cuddy smiled again, and then it faded as she hoped that there were future birthdays, and that her husband would be there, and that anybody would be celebrating. "Dr. Jensen, you know Greg by now. You've told me medically, but what's the impression you get from him. Do you think he's improving at all?"

A difficult question, but Jensen faced it squarely. "The impression I'm getting from him is that his subconscious is very, very distant. He simply is not responding. His vitals jump and dip at times, but I haven't noticed any correlation to anything in the environment when I'm there, not to speech or touch. I am extremely glad that he worked out the reason for his difficulties before he collapsed. That at least gives him more to hold onto than still thinking he was having a psychotic break. In short, I'm not sure where he is mentally right now, but he does not seem to be anywhere close."

Cuddy abruptly remembered something and sat up a bit straighter, flinching as her stitches pulled. "He told me while we were down in Lexington, after his mother's accident, that the last time he was in a coma, he had a long, involved discussion with Amber, and Amber was the one who encouraged him to come back. I remember he was worried about his mother that she might be being tormented by John since she knew now. I hope wherever he is right now, it's somewhere . . ." Cuddy froze. "Oh my God. What if John has him mentally right now?"

Jensen considered that, and his own blood pressure kicked up a fraction. Purely speaking of thoughts that had been at the surface of the mind, not of course of ghosts, he had to admit it was a strong possibility. "You think he might?" Cuddy asked, studying his face.

"I . . . I hope not. But I do know that he had been having a very hard time and struggling with his memories for the previous two days before his collapse. Even if that was physically caused and not psychiatrically, it's undeniable that it was very much on his mind."

Cuddy tried to sit up straighter, and he pushed her back. "I've got to see him. If he's with John, he needs something strong counterbalancing it on this side, trying to bring him back."

Jensen hesitated, then pulled out his cell phone. "I'll suggest it. I think you might have a valid point about his current state, although I hope you're wrong. But the medical doctors will make the decision."

Cuddy gritted her teeth while they waited. Keep away from him, she admonished John silently. You can't have him. He's ours now. He's _mine._

(H/C)

A thorough exam, a normal white count, and an antibacterial bath later, Cuddy was wheeled into House's ICU room. Her breath caught in her throat looking at him.

His bed was set in a semi-upright position to assist with relieving intracranial pressure. He was as pale as the pillowcase behind him, as pale as the bandage around his head, and he was absolutely, deathly still. Numerous monitors and lines were attached, including the drain at the surgical site and the ICP monitor exiting from the side of his head. Her bed was pulled up next to his and parked right beside it on the side not taken up by monitors, and she stretched out a hand, touching his arm. "Greg," she called. "Greg!"

Nothing changed. The eyes didn't open, the vitals didn't suddenly accelerate in response to her voice. He seemed, as Jensen had said, to simply be not responding.

"Greg!" Cuddy could feel her own heart rate rising, and she forced herself to take deep breaths. Having finally made it in here, she wasn't about to be kicked out again.

"Take it easy," Wilson advised. "To be here for him, you've got to stay calm and keep working on your own healing."

"Wilson," Cuddy snapped, "shut up." She did try to calm down, though. She gripped his hand tightly, his cane hand. "I'm here, Greg," she said. "Where are you? We need you to come back to us."

The spectators stood watching hopefully.

Nothing.

Cuddy sighed and settled back against her pillow, still holding his hand. No instant miracle, apparently. No Lazarus resurrection. She was determined to keep at it anyway. "I am not giving up on you, Greg. Don't you dare leave us."

(H/C)

Long and endless staircases of fog stretched through the grayscape, and House felt like he had been falling down them for all eternity. He was still struggling to remember why he wasn't alone, to remember names, and the memories still teased him around the edges, but the one hard reality of this hell of fog was John.

House had just landed at the base of another flight of stairs and lay in a crumpled heap. He had lost count of the broken bones at this point. They didn't seem to be disabling in this world; they simply hurt.

John was tramping down the stairs toward him in his heavy Marine boots. "I keep telling you, you're alone. You never were worth caring about."

"I'm not alone," House gritted.

"Then name one person who cares about you," John challenged. House was silent, trying furiously to burn off the internal fog in his brain. It wouldn't work. "See? You can't."

"They are there," House snapped. "I don't know why . . . why I can't hold onto it. But I know they are there."

Then John was right on top of him, looming dozens of feet high overhead, and House couldn't help the cringe as the hand rose threateningly. "What do you say to me, Greg?"

He couldn't control the fear, even while hating himself for it. John was right; he _was_ a pathetic weakling. John leaned over closer, seeming a hundred times his size. "What do you say to me, Greg?"

"Thank you, sir," he choked out.

John grabbed him by the collar and jerked him to his feet, marching him along to the top of yet another staircase, House trying to keep up with his bad leg protesting every step of the way. John stationed him at the top, a procedure they had been through dozens of times so far, and then turned him around, back to the void, face to his angry father. "Now, Greg. Words don't mean anything, and I'll prove it to you." His hands raised for the push. "I'm sorry, Greg."

House had heard the words countless times in this hell of fog, but for the first time, just for a second, something new occurred. A hand, a woman's hand, suddenly extended through the fog on his right, reaching toward him, and clasped in it was his missing cane.

In that instant, House grabbed the walking stick, the hand vanishing as it released it, and in the next second, wielding his newfound weapon, he lunged at John.


	32. Chapter 32

John was taken completely off guard, and House's left shoulder caught him in his chest as the cane slashed down hard across John's left knee. An audible crack was heard, and John let out a yell of mixed pain and rage. Both of them fell, and then there suddenly was another of the innumerable staircases behind John. House didn't care if he went over himself; he'd already crashed down dozens of them one painful step at a time, but damn it, John was going down this one, either alone or with House.

John's hands latched onto his shoulders, squeezing, and they fell together, with John bellowing like a bull. "Give up, Greg! You'll never win."

"I am NOT alone," House insisted, flinching as another step caught him in the ribs. "And I have PROOF." The cane was still there, seemingly melded to his hand, taking the fall with them both. He was trying to hold onto it, but he got the feeling that it would hold onto him even if his grip failed.

They landed hard at the bottom, John beneath, and House jerked himself up to his knees, feeling the pain in both legs suddenly. He planted his foot on John's chest, pinning him, and the cane came crashing down. On the second blow, John grabbed the cane itself, trying to wrench it away, and immediately released it with a gasp, staring at his hands as if they had been burned. House couldn't help being diverted by curiosity for a moment, and he looked at the cane. Smooth, firm, reassuringly tangible in his hand, but it did not hurt him.

He hesitated too long, and John swept his feet out from under him, bringing House to the ground again. They rolled over, House underneath now, and John's first came down, heading for his face, but House's last-second jerk to one side made the full blow land along the left side of his head. Fireworks burst in his vision. That hurt beyond anything else so far, pain echoing around the inside of his skull. Teeth gritted, he managed to roll them over again, putting himself once again on top, and he knelt on his father and raised the cane. Blow after blow rained down on John's head, House trying to repay his own pain with interest. No longer was John the authoritative Marine. He was whimpering now, trying to raise his hands not in assault but in defense, sobs wracking his frame. House lurched to his feet to get more leverage, and then he raised the cane high above his head, getting distance and momentum for the final blow. John's pleading eyes looked up at him, and an almost feral smile split House's face. "Dad," he said, "I'm sorry." In the next second, the full force of the cane slammed down. There was a sound almost like a ruptured balloon, and suddenly, John disappeared, blinking out of sight.

House leaned on the cane, breathing heavily. His father was no longer at his feet, and the surrounding fog was no longer full of staircases. It was still fog, though, thick and heavy, almost palpable in the air. House stood there for a while taking physical inventory. Both of his legs hurt, the right one pulsing almost electrically, the left one with an angry throb. The whole left side of his head still hurt sharply. But at least his father was gone. He looked around and called once or twice, but only the swirling grayscape seemed with him now. No reply, no landmarks, no direction.

He looked at the cane in his hand. Firm, tangible. _She_ had handed it to him. He had recognized even the disembodied hand and wrist and the gleam of the ring, a ring that was itself familiar. He knew her, but he still could not quite grasp the name or the details. With a sigh, he started limping off into the fog, using the cane for support, intent on getting anywhere as long as it was someplace different.

(H/C)

Wilson finished inspecting the surgery site and then began applying a fresh dressing. The neurologist had agreed on pulling the drain this morning, as output had been progressively decreasing. They were going to leave the ICP monitor in for another day or so, just in case. He studied his friend's closed eyes as he wound a fresh bandage around his head. "Maybe we could threaten to use hot pink bandages. Do you think that would wake him up?"

Cuddy gave a weak giggle, but it quickly faded. She had been here for over twelve hours now, and House hadn't responded to her any more than he had responded to anybody else. She squeezed his hand more tightly. She would _not_ give up.

Wilson looked sympathetic. "He'll make it, Cuddy. He's too stubborn not to."

"He's been unconscious for over 60 hours now, Wilson. I just hope that all of him comes back." She rubbed her fingers across his hand. "You need to wake up, Greg. Come on, open your eyes for us."

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a corresponding blip on the monitor.

Wilson dropped the dressing scissors he was using, and they fell with a clatter, bounced off the bed rails, and hit House in the side. Wilson retrieved them and gave the blanket over his friend an apologetic pat. "Sorry. I mean . . . no, damn it, I mean I'm sorry. If you don't want me to use that phrase, then wake up and tell me off about it. I'm sorry, House." His voice was rising.

"Don't!" Cuddy insisted. "Don't try to wake him up by tormenting him."

Wilson recalled the ice and wilted. He hoped Cuddy never found out about that. Somewhat ashamed of his minor outburst, he put a hand on House's shoulder. "I apologize. Come back to us soon, House." He gathered the dressing materials, gave a weak smile to Cuddy, and exited the room.

Jensen was coming up the hall outside, and Wilson deposited the supplies on a cart and then walked over to him. Since Cuddy and House were together now, they had been trying to give them interspersed periods of privacy, while still making sure somebody was right outside at all times if needed. "Any change?" Jensen asked.

Wilson shook his head. "Nothing. The longer he stays unresponsive, the worse it looks for him."

"How is she holding up?"

"Better than I am, I think. She kept waking up last night, but she is at least trying not to move much."

"Go get some sleep. I'll take over here for a few hours."

Wilson smiled weakly. "Thanks. I don't know what I would have done without you the last few days."

"I'm glad I could be here, although not glad for the reason it was needed," Jensen replied.

"We sure have messed up your schedule this week, though. All your appointments."

"Nothing was urgent, and the patients who might potentially need me urgently have my cell phone number." Wilson still looked worried, tired, and guilty, and after a minute Jensen went on. "However, I did want to make sure my secretary called you and explained that I'm unable to keep your appointment tomorrow afternoon. I'm out of town."

Wilson's stressed features relaxed into a reluctant smile; then the laughter took over. He leaned against the wall, trying to regain control. After a minute, he looked over at the psychiatrist. "Thanks."

"Any time." Jensen clapped him on the shoulder. "Go get some sleep. You're off the clock for the next six hours."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Wilson headed for the elevator, and Jensen watched him go, then turned with a sigh to head for House's room and hover outside unobtrusively in case he was needed.

(H/C)

House limped along through the fog. The pain in both legs and in his head was worsening even though the complaints from his other injuries from John seemed to be fading. He was starting to feel slightly dizzy now, and he was glad of the support of the cane.

A never-changing landscape of swirling gray fog still surrounded him. He stopped for a moment, leaning on the cane as he took a break. He was feeling worse physically the further he went, and he wasn't sure how much longer his legs, even with the addition of the third one, would hold up. "Anybody out there?" he called once again. "Anybody who's actually on my side, that is? Could use a little help here."

No response. He felt frustration rise, and he looked at the cane in his hand, reminding himself. She was there somewhere. He wasn't alone. He could use another cane, though. Or a wheelchair. Or Mapquest. Or a team of fog sherpas to carry him out. Or a motorcycle. Or . . .

He froze, his throbbing head tilting slightly, trying to catch the sound. Had he heard something up ahead? With renewed purpose, he limped forward, pushing his aching legs. A circle of yellow light in the gray, a circle that coalesced into a lantern, then into the woman holding it. He studied her, the calm face, the clear eyes, the smile, the gray hair.

For the first time since he'd been put in hell, he clearly remembered someone's name. "Oma." He reached out toward her, but his hand went straight through hers and grasped only cold fog.

She never said a word, just shook her head slightly at him, and then she turned and walked off a few strides. He was still rooted to the spot with shock, and she turned back with a fondly impatient smile. Her free hand beckoned, and he lurched forward on his legs, gritting his teeth at the pain in his head, eyes always fixed on the golden beacon that bounced through the fog just out of reach ahead.

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up from a reluctant nap. She was trying to stay awake, but her rebellious body had other ideas, and it had been a very interrupted night. She was somehow afraid that if she didn't keep watch, he would slip away from them. But she'd fallen asleep apparently after lunch, and bright late afternoon sunlight came through the window now. Annoyed at herself, she turned to check on him, and her heart leaped clear into her throat as she realized that his eyes were open and looking back at her.

They were more gray than blue, utterly exhausted and weak, but they were undeniably open and looking back at her.

"GREG!" He flinched and jumped, retreating into the pillow as his eyes squeezed shut, and Cuddy realized too late that if he had a headache, which was a near certainty after not only his injury but having his skull drilled open, a several-decibel shriek of joy was probably not the most pleasant way to welcome him back to the land of the living. In the next moment, her guilt and concern multiplied as his whole body tensed up, and a whimper of pain struggled past his doggedly sealed lips. His hand not trapped between hers crept down toward his leg, and his heart rate skyrocketed.

"Wilson!" She tried to call softly but urgently. Wilson was already coming through the door anyway, responding to her first shout. He took in the monitor screen instantly and hurried to the bed, hitting the call button.

"Need some morphine and diazepam, stat." He reached out, grasping House's head while being careful not to put pressure over the bandage or the ICP monitor. "House, can you hear me? Open your eyes."

House apparently did hear him and even gave a reassuringly Housian response by doing precisely the opposite of what was requested, screwing his lids shut even tighter.

"House!" Wilson insisted, though his tone was sympathetic. Poor man probably had the mother of all headaches.

"His leg is spasming," Cuddy worried, reaching toward him.

"Don't move too much, Cuddy," Wilson admonished. He let go of House's head and reached down to check the thigh, then the other one. He shook his head. "_Both_ of them. Left and right, totally locked up."

Cuddy flinched, remembering that jump in retreat from her voice that had undoubtedly set everything off after days of motionlessness. "Give him something, Wilson!"

"Should be coming, but I've got to run some neuro checks first."

Cuddy glared at him. "You have _got _to be kidding. If he has a heart attack while you're checking out his brain, that isn't going to help the situation."

A nurse hurried in right then with the meds, and Wilson took the syringes and hesitated. Technically, he should do the neuro checks, their first baseline upon House's awakening. Drugs would modify the results. He looked over at the monitor. House's pulse was over 150.

"Wilson!" Cuddy demanded.

He reached for the IV line and injected the two syringes. "Easy, House. Hold on; we're working on it." He kept his eyes glued to the monitor, one hand on his friend's wrist to confirm its readings. Slowly, House's features unclenched, and slowly, the heart rate began to fall. "House, open your eyes for me, okay?"

House didn't respond. Cuddy tightened her grip on his other hand. "Greg, please, open your eyes. Just for a moment."

Very slowly, as if it took all his remaining strength, House opened his eyes. They already looked somewhat foggy under the heavy double dose of meds, and they still looked absolutely drained and weak. Wilson leaned over. "House, do you know where you are?" The eyes drifted slowly from him to Cuddy, looking impassively at their faces, not at the room beyond. "Do you know who we are?" He not only didn't speak but didn't even try to. "House, can you blink? Blink if you know who we are." The lids were sagging. House looked back at Wilson, then back at Cuddy, and then his eyelids fell. Wilson and Cuddy were both holding their breath waiting for a blink, but his eyes stayed shut. On the monitor screen, his vitals leveled out.

Wilson shook his head. "I'm afraid to even call that a response either way. Should have done the neuro checks."

"No," Cuddy insisted. "His heart rate was too high. We had to give him something."

Wilson looked at her. "Did he say anything to you when he woke up? Did he look like he recognized you? Sarcastic eye roll? Demand for details? Anything?"

"I was asleep," she confessed. "He had his eyes open when I woke up, but they just looked. . . tired. No emotion. Not even curious. Just tired." She squeezed his hand tightly between hers. "And then I yelped, and he jumped at the noise and set off every injury he's got. Go get a couple of heating pads, Wilson. Put them on both legs. Maybe it will help." Wilson nodded silently, touched House briefly on the shoulder, and left the room.

Cuddy gingerly shifted closer to him, never letting go of his hand. "Sleep, Greg," she said softly.

He slept.


	33. Chapter 33

Wilson and Jensen gathered in the hospital room early Wednesday morning. It had taken all of Jensen's considerable persuasion to convince the mothers to stay away. Blythe, of course, had wanted to bounce in exuberantly to see her son as soon as she heard he had woken up, and Susan, who was quite attached to House by now, hadn't been far behind her. The explanation that nobody was sure how much of House had in fact returned to them wasn't an encouraging one, and then Blythe had been weeping over her son's downfall in advance, while Susan had been not only worried about him but wondering how her daughter would ever manage to get through this. Jensen had been forced to discourage and encourage them in turn, depending on the variable mood of the moment, and try to convince them to simply wait for further data. Simply waiting for news was the very thing that both of them reacted badly to, which was the reason he had given them specific assignments initially after House's surgery.

Now, though, there was no alternative. Filling the room with a crowd, particularly one containing very emotional and reactive members, would overwhelm House, the more so the more residual problems he had. The mothers were the last people he needed in the room at initial evaluation, although Jensen had to find more diplomatic ways to state that. They were in a nearby waiting room. Nobody was asleep at the moment, despite the fairly early hour. The carefully managed shift schedule had for the first time since House's collapse Saturday night broken down.

Cuddy had only slept in snatches herself, her mind working frantically over those few seconds she had seen his eyes before she had screamed in joy and knocked him into a whirlpool of pain. She tried over and over to convince herself that there was recognition there, that they had been his same, familiar eyes, just like she had seen hundreds of times, and she simply could not do it. Then her worst fears insisted that they had been completely disoriented and void of all intelligence, and she couldn't believe that, either. There was also the worrying fact that both when he woke up and later after the meds, he had not even tried to speak.

She rode an emotional seesaw most of the night, and she was exhausted herself, but Wilson's helpful offer of something to make her sleep while House was out had been met by an absolute laser glare. She could not rest herself without knowing more data. So she catnapped during the night, never releasing his hand, reassuring herself that he did indeed look asleep now, not absent, not like a corpse someone had forgotten to bury.

So the two men gathered Wednesday morning, Wilson in lead position medically by the bed, Jensen melting into the wall for the moment in the background, not wanting to overwhelm House but prepared to make his own keen observations. The meds should be wearing off at this point, but they shouldn't be totally out of House's system, a fact that Wilson had debated. Testing House completely unmedicated would be best, but if he was in that much pain, that itself would throw off tests. Hopefully, he would be responsive at this point while still getting some residual effect to take the edges off.

Wilson hated to admit to himself that he also wanted to have some excuse, however small, for declined function. If he could still blame any deficits on the residual meds, he wouldn't have to give up hope just yet.

House was asleep, his vitals actually having been stable all night for the first time since his surgery. The minor accelerations and decelerations that had occurred seemingly at random throughout his ICU course were gone.

Wilson picked up his left hand, careful of the dressing on his wrist, and gently pushed against the nailbeds, not too hard, just to see if he could elicit a response. House retreated slightly without waking up. He was at least responding to stimuli now, unlike the previous nerve-wracking days. The oncologist took a deep breath and gave one look back at Jensen before nodding to Cuddy.

She squeezed her husband's other hand. "Greg." This time, she kept her voice soft, firmly resolved not to cause him pain, no matter what happened. If she was about to be sentenced to despair, she would at least accept the details of her punishment quietly. "Greg. Come on, wake up." She stroked his hand lightly. "Greg." His heart rate kicked up a fraction on the monitor, and the muscles in his face tightened up slightly. "Come on. Wake up," she encouraged. His heart rate continued to shift gears, and he moved his head slightly. "Open your eyes, Greg. Open your eyes for me, okay?"

Slowly the eyes opened, facing the ceiling overhead at first. "Greg," she called again, and they promptly shifted toward her, although he flinched slightly as he turned his head. She searched his eyes. Where she was longing for a black or white answer, she only saw shades of gray. He w_as_ in there, but he did not seem fully himself, either. He also still looked unutterably weak. "Do you know who I am?" she asked, and her heart paused for the answer.

That awful slight delay again, not denial but _something _off. More than anything, beneath being tired and weak, he looked _frustrated_. After a moment, though, he nodded. Her heart resumed beating, though she still felt as if she were holding her breath.

"Who is she?" Wilson asked, the first time he had spoken, and House reacted to his voice, turning back to look at him, then back to Cuddy. A pause. A long pause. "Say it, House. Who is she?"

"Lisa," he said finally, and his tone almost made it a question. His voice sounded weak, hoarse, and raspy, and Wilson automatically poured a cup of water.

"Here. You want a drink?"

"Yes." No hesitation at all on that reply, and Wilson held the straw to his lips. House took a few gulps before Wilson pulled the cup away.

"Easy. Not too much at first." He hesitated, looking back toward Jensen against the wall. Something was off here. House had given the right answers so far, but his processing speed was way off. It shouldn't take him 15 seconds to identify his wife.

Jensen was studying House with rapt attention, his eyes bright with his own version of House's fierce case-study look. Who are you, he mouthed silently, and Wilson turned back to the bed. "Who am I?"

Again, time froze in the room, only the clock on the wall shattering the silence with its suddenly too-loud tick. House swallowed and closed his eyes again. "Wilson," he said finally, after a delay even longer than with Cuddy.

Wilson frowned slightly. The questions on the neuro check would get much harder than this. A toddler would have outscored him to this point.

Jensen stepped forward, unpeeling himself from the wall and approaching the foot of the bed. "Dr. House," he said, and House opened his eyes again and looked at him. "Do you know me? Don't worry about my name. Do you know _me_?" House nodded quickly in relief. No hesitation. "You know who I am; it's the labels you're having trouble with, isn't it?"

House swallowed. "Yes." Wilson and Cuddy both started to relax a fraction, but House's next statement immediately had them wondering again just how extensive damage was. "It was worse in hell."

Jensen alone took the answer at face value. "You were in hell the last few days?" He saw House's curiosity catch on the last bit of the question. "This is Wednesday morning. You collapsed Saturday night. Do you remember that?"

"Yes." No hesitation there. His eyes went back to Cuddy. "Did . . ." He ground to a halt again and gave a sigh of frustration. Cuddy started to fill in the blank automatically, and Jensen held out a hand, stopping her. "Rachel. Is she okay?"

"She's fine. You saved her."

Jensen had taken over the main questioning from Wilson by this point. "Tell me about hell." His tone was absolutely matter-of-fact; he might have been asking House to describe the weather.

House immediately tensed up, though, and his vitals made a corresponding jump. "Easy," Wilson admonished.

"It was full of . . . fog. There were lots of stairs. And . . . ice." Wilson flinched. "And . . . " The numbers were really starting to rise on the monitor now, and Jensen intervened.

"We'll talk about it later. You're not in good enough physical condition right now to go over all of that. I was just testing your memory and speech patterns." He looked from Wilson to Cuddy. "He's having word-finding difficulties, especially with people and sometimes with nouns. That doesn't mean he doesn't know you; he just has to reach a bit for the exact label. Is that right, Dr. House?"

House nodded, feeling a surge of relief that one of them in the room at least wasn't looking at him with such awful concern. Jensen's ability to state it clinically helped steady him. "Yes." He felt Cuddy squeeze his hand, and he looked back to her. "I _know _you. But in . . .hell, I couldn't . . . there were no names. I never got the . . . answer."

Cuddy shuddered. "It's okay, Greg."

Wilson stepped in, his brain thawed again into action by Jensen's analysis. Word-finding difficulties were a common side-effect of traumatic brain injury, often just a transient one, and they didn't indicate the person now had the IQ of a garden vegetable. "You had a severe bleed that had been building up for two days since the accident before you collapsed. There was a lot of pressure. We were almost expecting some problems, hopefully just slight ones."

"I'd even say that since by your own report it was worse than this in hell, the long-term prognosis is good. You might need to see a speech pathologist for a while, but you clearly can communicate even now, and you _can_ get to the words you want. It just takes a bit of effort." Jensen stepped up to the side of the bed. "I want to try something, partly for my own curiosity, I'll admit, and partly to judge other function." He pulled out a small notepad and a pen from his shirt pocket and handed them to House, who reluctantly let go of Cuddy's hand to grab the pen. His hand trembled slightly when he raised it, and he felt irritation rising again. "Rest it on the bed; don't try to pick your hand up to hold the notepad on your body," Jensen advised, and House did so, the hand responding slightly to the change of position. "Keep in mind, you are extremely weak physically still. That's an overall effect, not necessarily a specific one; don't let yourself get frustrated with it. Now then, as soon as you can, write my name."

Jensen had deliberately waited until House was poised and ready to write, not wanting to give him processing time. House wrote it down instantly.

"Wow," Wilson said.

House gave a slight smile himself. "Cool," he said, sounding more like himself than at any point so far in this interrogation.

Jensen nodded. "Speech and writing are separate pathways. Quite possible to have one interfered with and the other intact. Although again, just on my preliminary observations, your difficulties with speech are slight and can probably be readily overcome. They might even be much less noticeable just when you are physically stronger in a day or two."

House had continued doodles with the pad, writing down medical terms now, feeling a surge of relief at _not _having that maddening, scrambled delay time while some of the words teased him. His brain was still at his fingertips, was still in there. He relaxed a bit. After filling the page, though, he released the pen and leaned back, exhausted, his eyes falling shut. Jensen was right. He was still physically weak as a kitten.

"Nope," Wilson said. "I'm afraid we're not done on the neuro checks. You can't go back to sleep yet."

"Not asleep. Resting," House snapped with a tired version of his usual snark. He didn't reopen his eyes just yet, though. He wasn't looking forward to the penlight; his head still hurt significantly, even through the remnant of drugs he could tell remained in his system. "How is . . . " He stalled abruptly at the word baby, not only taking several seconds to get to it but suddenly and acutely feeling that she alone really did not have a label, whether remembered or otherwise.

"She's holding her own," Cuddy replied when she decided he really wasn't going to finish that question deliberately and not just by processing time. "The bleed hasn't expanded past Grade II and is starting to recede. She's still having desaturations, but they're managing them. She still likes Mozart." House smiled, remembering that, and then his eyes snapped back open suddenly. Jensen was just taking the pen and notepad off the bed, but he stopped as House reached for them. House tried to flip to a clean page and nearly dropped the thing, and Jensen after a moment turned the page for him and then pushed the pad under his hand. He didn't think House was actually having neurological problems with the hand, although they would test that. He simply had no strength, appropriately for somebody who had spent three days not only in a coma but apparently in "hell."

His hand didn't want to hold the pen this time, even braced against the bed. House felt a flash of annoyance, but he wanted to test Jensen's theory out on a more important matter. He closed his eyes and pictured Oma standing there, holding the lantern, leading him out of the fog, and her true name came immediately to his fingers, although his mind balked at it. He wrote it down, then pushed the pad slightly toward Cuddy. He leaned back into the pillow, feeling worn out.

Cuddy picked up the notepad, reading it. "Abigail." The context dawned. "You want to name our daughter Abigail?"

House nodded. "My . . . grandmother. She led me out of . . . hell."

Cuddy's eyes welled up. "I love it. So you were talking to your grandmother while you were out?"

House shook his head. "Not talking . . . I was . . ." His pulse made a sudden leap, and Cuddy caught his hand again, stroking it.

"Easy, Greg. Take it easy. Let's assume there were other people, or at least one other person, in hell; you don't have to go into that now. But your grandmother led you out at the end?"

"Yes," he said. Yes and no at least were right there when wanted. Jensen had pegged it; it was nouns that sometimes fled from him, especially names. Part of his mind wanted to analyze that; the rest simply lacked the energy for it at the moment.

He could hear the smile in Cuddy's voice. "Then we absolutely have to name our daughter after her. I can't think of anything I'd like better."

"Do you know what it means?" Jensen asked abruptly.

House nodded but was too tired to chase the words. Cuddy looked confused. "Father's joy," Jensen supplied.

She smiled. "That's perfect. Abigail House, although we'll probably call her Abby."

"And . . ." House fought through the frustration. "Lisa."

"As a middle name? Abigail Lisa. I love it."

"Not after one of the grandmothers?" Wilson suggested teasingly.

"You pick . . . which one," House suggested. "And tell them." His eyes squeezed tighter shut. The headache was intensifying.

"Greg?" He could hear the worry in Cuddy's voice. "Does your head hurt?"

"Yes." He left his answer at the simple one he could give without fighting for words, although yes hardly covered it. His legs were tuning up again, too.

Wilson leaned over. "I really do need to run a set of neuro checks. We never got one last night. Come on, House, open your eyes. Penlight time."

House screwed his eyes tighter shut. "Go to . . . hell. No. You can't. No . . . vacancy." His lips curled up on the thought in a genuine smile.

Cuddy, Wilson, and Jensen exchanged a glance, suspecting some details, wanting more, not wanting to push. House's voice was getting weaker, his vitals were becoming slightly unstable again, and they knew he had given as much strength as he had to this conversation already. "Come on, House," Wilson urged. "Just a couple of tests, okay? Then I'll give you some more morphine and let you rest."

Cuddy leaned back, suddenly exhausted herself. Maybe she could sleep now once he was out. Half of her attention was on Wilson's quick exam, but the other half was on the notepad which she still held in the hand that was not holding House's.

Abigail Lisa House.


	34. Chapter 34

House was totally out again a short while later. Wilson checked the vitals - stabilizing again. Running a complete evaluation of mental status hadn't been accomplished because of the speech difficulties - the naming of three items immediately and after five minutes' delay, for instance, would only be unfair and frustrating to House, and having him write down answers had rapidly degenerated when he simply was not able to hold the pen any longer. His pain levels had been rising sharply again at the end, too, and he eventually just stopped responding at all, obviously deliberately ignoring Wilson's questions, though whether through pure obstinacy, weakness, or pain or a combination of all three was hard to judge. His vitals had started fluctuating again, too. Wilson finally gave up and medicated him.

The oncologist double-checked the oxygen line, then turned back to face Jensen and Cuddy. "What did you think?" he asked.

"He is there," Cuddy insisted.

Jensen went for a more clinical assessment. "I'd tend to believe that the problems with his hand were just the result of exhaustion. He was able to write at first. My rough impression is that his memory seems to be intact, but we're going to have to get inventive to get objective tests while he's having problems finding words. He also is progressively going to get more frustrated, I think."

"More frustrated than he was there at the end?" Wilson asked skeptically.

"Oh, definitely. His weakness is overlaying everything right now. As he starts feeling better physically, he will become more impatient with himself. Overall, though, I was encouraged. The fact that he still could get to the words, even with long pauses, is very good. I think he'll probably work out of this fairly quickly. He, of course, isn't going to see it quite like that. I'd also love to have a long session with him on exactly what happened in 'hell.' His heart rate jumped significantly every time he thought about that. He got out, but even if he overcame it somehow, he still needs to talk about and process what happened to him there. That again, though, will run straight into the speech problems, and besides, I don't think he's physically well enough yet to take the stress of such a session anyway."

Wilson shook his head. "I didn't like his numbers there at the end. Did you notice anything else?"

"He didn't like the light in his eyes. To put it mildly. Probably physically caused, but something to be aware of."

"And sounds," Cuddy put in. "He reacted so sharply when I yelped yesterday. I shouldn't have done that, but his reaction really was extreme."

"Brain injury can heighten senses for a while," Wilson said. "We'll try to keep it down and avoid bright lights as much as possible."

"Overall, I think what he needs most right now is rest," Jensen stated. "That alone might help with the speech and certainly should help with the hands, unless we're missing something neurological there. But I think a more thorough clinical evaluation is going to have to wait a few days. He literally is too weak to take it right now. I also think it's a fair assessment that he wouldn't react well to a speech pathology consult at the moment and wouldn't even try as much as he was with us." Cuddy and Wilson both nodded vigorously, agreeing. "I'd recommend putting that off a few days, too. We need to get past the point where physical weakness is interfering so much with everything to be able to determine exactly how significant his problems are."

Cuddy sighed. "You never catch a break, do you?" she said to her husband.

"Could have been much worse," Wilson reminded her.

She shivered and nodded. "Dr. Jensen, earlier you stopped me from filling in a blank for him. Should we not try to help him out?"

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Actually, painful as it is to watch, we should let him hunt names and words on his own. The process will gradually help him improve, reawaken old pathways."

She nodded reluctantly and settled back into her pillows, suddenly overcome with a wave of tiredness herself.

Wilson saw it. "I'm going to have them get your morning meds and bring them on in, and then you can sleep yourself while he does." Cuddy had been being switched over the last day to oral pain meds and antibiotics instead of IV. She still felt like a gutted fish, although it was starting to get better.

"Wednesday," she said suddenly. "This is Wednesday. It was a week ago tomorrow." She closed her eyes. "I think this has been the longest week of my life."

Jensen turned to leave. "We'll leave you alone. Do you want me to talk to the mothers, James?"

"Hell, yes," Wilson said with feeling.

Cuddy chuckled and then flinched as her stitches pulled. "Thank you again, Dr. Jensen. I don't know how we'll ever make up to you for all this."

"Pretty high cost," Jensen agreed. "It might even have to carry a price tag like saving my daughter's life." He smiled at her. "I'll be back later. Get some rest."

Cuddy closed her eyes as the psychiatrist left the room. His daughter. House had saved his daughter. She hoped House would save many more people in the future, although she could tell from his first notes that the medical mind was still in there. They would just have to help him overcome frustration through his recovery until he could return to work. But remembering Jensen's daughter, a beautiful little 7-year-old, made her think of her own. "Wilson?" she asked, not opening her eyes.

"What is it?"

"Go down to the NICU. Tell Abby her name."

Wilson smiled. "I will. I'll tell them to bring your meds on my way past the nurse's station. Sweet dreams, Cuddy."

She was already half asleep by the time he was out the door.

(H/C)

House and Cuddy both slept throughout the day. Jensen had given Blythe and Susan a basic summary and instructions on how to help him by not helping him, but he emphasized that what House needed most right now was rest. Blythe and Susan tiptoed in one at a time, quiet as mice, just watching him and Cuddy sleep, and then they finally retreated to the hotel room under Jensen's urging after a sleepless night of worry.

Up in his office after a visit to the NICU and then Rachel, Wilson collapsed onto the couch, locked the door, and for the first time since Saturday night allowed himself to totally let go, to think that his friend might recover, albeit with a few problems to work through on the way, to truly believe that maybe he hadn't hopelessly and irrevocably shattered the lives of Cuddy and the girls with his own medical errors. Silent tears streamed down his face as he thought of everything that had happened, but he was too tired to lie there awake long. He, too, fell into absolutely sound sleep.

Down in the ICU, the door to the room opened quietly, and Cameron walked in. She had made sure first at the nurse's station that the occupants both were sleeping, as she really didn't want to face Cuddy yet and make her inadequate apology for the incomplete exam Thursday night. Even at the risk of being close to Cuddy, though, she needed to see House. Wilson had been giving her thumbnail updates through the week. She stood at the foot of House's bed and studied his face, then the monitors, then his face again. Finally, she spoke up, softly but with fierce determination. "House, I swear, the next time you ever come to ER as a patient, I'm getting a MRI of the brain as part of standard triage. I don't care if you came in with a sprained ankle. You are not going to pull this stunt again, not on my watch. Do you hear me?"

He didn't answer, for once giving her the last word. She smiled and reached out awkwardly, touching him lightly on a blanketed foot, afraid to get any closer to the head of the bed and risk waking up Cuddy. "Get well, House," she told him. Then she turned and with lighter steps walked out of ICU.


	35. Chapter 35

Voices reached in and pulled his reluctant body back to the surface. "Maybe we can do it while he's asleep." House felt so completely exhausted. He hadn't even felt this weak when he woke up after being shot and nearly bleeding out.

There were hands on him, not just Cuddy's grip on his right hand but clinical hands. Odd pricks along the side of his head, what felt like a superficial injection to the skin. Then somebody pushed firmly along the left side of his head, and a flare of sharp pain raced across his skull, overriding the general pain, which was tuning up again. "The surgery site is looking good," a voice said, one of the neurosurgeons, he knew, although the name of course hovered just out of reach. House flinched sharply at the pain, pulling away, and tried to reach up with his right hand to smack the hands off of him, but his arm made the journey in slow motion, and the blow never landed. Instead, other hands caught his, not as soft as Cuddy's.

"Quit it, House. Hold still." Wilson, not that the name was there. House opened his eyes to see Wilson and the neurosurgeon on that side of the bed. "We're taking out the ICP monitor. Things are looking good."

The neurosurgeon grabbed his head again, putting pressure along the stitch line as he got a grip, and House again pulled away. "Quit!" he said sharply, the effect lessened by his voice, which sounded hoarse and rough with sleep.

The neurosurgeon sighed. "I can't remove it without touching you. Not everybody practices hands-off medicine."

"Don't push," House insisted.

Wilson cocked an eyebrow. "Is it that tender along the surgery site?" House rolled his eyes in response. "Here, Dawson, let me try holding his head still for you. Maybe you won't have to put as much pressure right along the site that way."

"I didn't think I was," Dawson replied. He clearly thought House was just being difficult. "We used local."

"You're hurting him," Cuddy's voice stated definitely, and House turned his head back toward her, toward the right.

The neurosurgeon gave a sigh as his target again moved away. "House, damn it, if you want this over with, hold still!" His voice rose at the end, and House flinched at the sound and closed his eyes.

"Don't raise your voice," Cuddy demanded, her own tones perfectly conversational but definitely annoyed. "Yelling hurts him."

Wilson reached around the neurosurgeon's hands, grasping House's head with one hand on his chin and the other on top, nowhere close to the damage on the side. "Here. Does that hurt?"

No added pain anyway, although being pinned firmly like that kicked off unpleasant memories of John. House fought them down, trying to remind himself that John was dead. "House?"

"No. Hurry."

Wilson didn't like how his vitals were trending, but he nodded to the neurosurgeon. "Go ahead, and I'll hold him, but try not to use any more pressure than you have to."

Pressure again, at least less, and fingers around the incision. He could feel a slight pulling as the intraventricular monitor was pulled back through the skull and then heard the sound of a few sutures to hold that final hole in the skin closed. The pressure being used at least was less, but it still ramped up the pain. House called up mental Mozart, trying to distract himself. Cuddy recaptured his right hand and held it. "There." The neurosurgeon stepped back from the bed. "You put a fresh dressing and bandage on it. He's probably about ready to bite me." House bared his teeth, and Wilson snickered.

"I'll finish up. Thanks."

The neurosurgeon left the room, footsteps receding. Wilson let go of the vise grip on his head, and House relaxed slightly, opening his eyes. "He did use lidocaine," Wilson confirmed. "Did it really hurt that much?"

"No, he was just faking the heart rate spikes to be difficult," Cuddy snapped.

"Local only numbs . . . skin," House stated, feeling a flood of annoyance as his brain skidded to a stop in the middle of that sentence. Damn, this was frustrating. He knew what he wanted to say, but the words themselves absolutely taunted him at times. "Pressure . . ." He gave up and let the sentence trail off.

Wilson was applying a new dressing. "How are you feeling, aside from Dawson's contributions?"

"Tired. Hurts."

Wilson noted that he simply skipped the noun. "What hurts?" House sighed. "It's medically relevant. In case you haven't noticed, we all totally screwed up your case at first by not getting all the details."

House chased the words down. "Head . . . legs."

Wilson finished wrapping a new bandage around his head. "I'll get you some more meds in a minute. Were you really not aware of the head injury back before you collapsed? Never occurred to you in those two days?"

House shook his head. "Too much else. Didn't really hurt." He heard Cuddy's exasperated sigh and looked over at her. "I'm okay," he said, trying to reassure her.

Wilson finished the head and moved down to House's left wrist, beginning to remove the dressing. "Yeah, you're great."

House's eyes were fixed on Cuddy now. "How are you?"

"I'm doing better, Greg. Fever's been gone for a few days, and my abdomen is starting to feel better. They switched me to oral pain meds."

Wilson picked up House's left wrist, moving it around into his view. "You developed an infection yourself, but it responded to treatment well. The inflammation along the stitches looks a lot better. Whatever you cut this on must have had all sorts of fun microbes on it."

"It was . . ." He gritted his teeth in frustration, but Cuddy and Wilson both waited patiently. "Door. Inside of the door. I was trying to get . . . Lisa free."

Wilson nodded, satisfied at the subtle memory check. House did seem to be fully in there. His eyes looked a little clearer this afternoon after he'd slept all day, but they also looked more annoyed.

House looked around suddenly. "Where's . . . Jensen?"

"He's getting some sleep. He's been managing everybody for the last several days; he's better than a general. Got the mothers eating out of his hand." House gave a skeptical eyebrow arch. "Well, he's doing a lot better than I would have. He's been wonderful." Wilson finished rebandaging the wrist. "Did you want him?"

"No. Just wondered."

Wilson looked at him curiously. "Jensen said you called him Saturday night, not long before you collapsed."

"I thought . . ." House skidded to a verbal halt, remembering the terror of feeling that his mind was crumbling around him. "I was wrong," he said gratefully.

"Well, I'm glad you did call for him. I'd probably be ready to join Danny in Mayfield if he hadn't been around the last few days. He really was needed that night, just not for the patient he expected. You worked it out right at the end, didn't you?"

"Yes." House closed his eyes, remembering John walking into Cuddy's hospital room. His heart rate made another jump.

"Easy, Greg," Cuddy said. She gripped his hand between both of hers. "It's over, and we're all getting better now."

House opened his eyes suddenly. "I need to see . . . Rachel." He suddenly wanted to verify that the escalating symptoms surrounding her, the onslaught of memories had in fact been caused by the increasing bleed.

"Not sure you're strong enough yet," Wilson said. "And ICU might scare her." The room was indeed a swarm of equipment, and House still looked far from healthy. Even with the final tube no longer sticking out of the side of his head, he wouldn't look right, not even to a 10-month-old.

House shook his head. "I _need _to."

His heart rate was climbing steadily now. "Take it easy. Why don't I get you another round of meds, and maybe tomorrow, we could get her in here for just a few minutes."

"No." House's breathing was picking up, too. "Now. No more . . . meds. Not till after."

"But you just said you were in pain." Wilson looked toward Cuddy and wished himself that Jensen were here instead of taking his own well-deserved extended nap. House suddenly seemed more upset than he had at any time since coming out of the coma.

"Greg," Cuddy said softly, "why is that so important?"

He looked at her in pure frustration. "It is," he insisted.

A nurse stuck her head in the door. "Is everything all right in here? The monitors . . ."

"We're fine," Wilson replied. "Thanks." She left, and he looked back at House. "I'll go get her, just for a minute. Try to relax, okay? If you don't, we're going to have to give you something else whether you want it or not." He made sure the call button was within Cuddy's reach. "If he doesn't start calming down, hit the button. I'll put in an order for Ativan prn on my way past the nurse's station."

"NO!" House insisted and flinched as the sound echoed around his skull.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, but if you don't settle down, you won't be awake for it," Wilson stated. "And she's not going to be here long."

Five seconds would do it. One second would do it. House forced himself to take deep breaths as Wilson left. Cuddy stroked his hand. "Greg. I'm here, even if Jensen isn't. You can talk to me."

"I can't talk," he snapped, annoyed.

"Yes, you can. And it will get better. Jensen thought you'd get over the speech problems pretty quickly. Please, Greg, talk to me."

He closed his eyes. "That . . . cast was alive. It glowed. Pulsed. And . . .I couldn't look at . . . Rachel without remembering . . . everything. It was all falling apart. . . Dad was _right _there . . . I couldn't control my . . .thoughts. Thought I would scare . . . Rachel. Nearly had a panic . . . attack just being in the . . . room." That entire speech, with pauses, took him several minutes.

Cuddy shuddered. "Greg, you had a brain injury that was getting worse. There was a medical explanation."

"I know. But I need . . ." He trailed off..

Cuddy tried to fill in the blank herself, overriding Jensen's instructions for the moment. House needed to calm down. "You want to make sure you can look at her now without remembering?"

He nodded, relieved. "She's my . . . daughter. But I couldn't even be in the . . . room."

"Actually, even though I was pretty foggy myself, I definitely remember several times you were in the room with her. And I don't remember a single one of those times that she seemed scared of you." She squeezed his hand. "It was medical, Greg. It was purely medical. And even if Rachel was the focus, you kept visiting her and being there for her. You didn't let her down."

Wilson came back through the door, holding Rachel. House stared at her, at the cast. It was just a cast. It no longer expanded to fill the room in what he now realized had been an early manifestation of his hallucinations, even before John. "House?" Wilson walked over, uneasy with the fixed gaze. "Are you okay?"

House relaxed, and the numbers on the monitor finally started to fall. "It's okay." He smiled at her. "Hi . . . Rachel."

She reached out toward him, nearly flopping herself out of Wilson's arms. "Dada." Wilson put her on the bed, carefully holding her upright, and she reached up curiously toward the white bandage encircling his head.

"No," Wilson said firmly, moving her fingers away. "Can't touch."

"No," she objected, reaching out again. House picked up his left hand and gave her a finger to hold instead.

"Hi." The pain was increasing, and the weariness was pulling him down again.

Wilson picked her back up and looked at the monitor, which didn't look good even if the numbers were no longer truly frightening. "That's it," he said firmly. "You need to rest. I'll have them send in some more pain meds on my way out."

House nodded, his eyes falling shut. "Bye . . . Rachel."

He heard Wilson's footsteps retreating, heard the nurse coming in a few minutes later, and he felt the blessed relief sweeping through his veins. He surrendered to the weakness.

"Good night, Greg," Cuddy said, squeezing his hand.

"Good . . . " He was out before his mind could track down the last word.

She smiled, still holding his hand. "Pleasant dreams."


	36. Chapter 36

Thanks for the reviews, and special thanks to those who took the time to review each chapter instead of en masse. The story is over the major hill and on the wind down but still has several things to work out first. Lots is still unresolved. We'll get there.

(H/C)

It was late that night when Cuddy woke up abruptly. She still had House's hand in hers, and she felt him shift slightly and then immediately settle back down. Her eyes snapped open to quickly check his monitors, her body immediately at full alertness. She hadn't heard Blythe and Susan tiptoe into the room, but House moving even slightly immediately registered, even through her sleep. Blythe was standing over on the left side of the bed and had obviously just run her hand along her son's bandaged head. She did it again, running a hand affectionately along his hair and the large patch along the left side that had been shaved for the surgery, and Cuddy felt House react and minutely pull away, felt his hand twitch slightly in hers, and saw the heart monitor jump a few beats.

"Blythe! What are you doing?" Cuddy kept her voice pitched very low.

Blythe looked over, smiling at her. "Oh, hello, dear. I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You're hurting him."

Blythe stared at her hand, which had just been descending for another stroke as if she were petting a cat, and the hand froze guiltily. "I was being gentle. I was just thinking of all the times when he was . . ." Blythe hesitated, and her eyes shifted toward Susan and back. "If he was sick or hurt as a boy, sometimes I'd go up into his room after he was asleep and just run my hand through his hair, just to comfort him without waking him up."

Cuddy gritted her teeth and discarded her first five comments unsaid. First, Susan was standing right at the foot of her own bed, and second, she had no desire to wake up House. He was pretty medicated at the moment, but he wasn't in a coma any longer and would most likely react to sharp stimuli such as pressure along the surgical site - or his wife killing his mother. But the thought of Blythe talking about _comforting _House in childhood, considering everything she'd missed in his childhood, infuriated Cuddy. "Blythe, he just had the internal pressure monitor removed today, he's still got all sorts of stitches there, and he had a piece cut out of his skull with a bone saw and then reset, not to mention having arteries freshly repaired right under there. It's still quite touchy. He reacted to you, even through the drugs. Do not touch his head."

Blythe studied her son dubiously but stepped back obediently. "I was being careful," she repeated. She studied House with a frown. "Every time I've been in here today, he's been asleep. When will he start being awake more? I'd like to talk to him."

"Probably a couple of days. Rest is the best thing for him; it's _good_ that he's sleeping so much."

Susan entered the conversation, following Cuddy's example and keeping her voice down. "How are you doing yourself, Lisa?"

"I'm starting to feel better. Still tired myself, though." She yawned dramatically, though quietly.

Blythe took the hint. "We'd better leave you two to sleep. I just wanted to check on Greg again." She leaned forward to put a hand on her son's shoulder. "Good night, Gregory. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Good night, Lisa," Susan added.

"Good night," Cuddy replied, teeth clenched. After they left, she checked House's monitors again, then leaned back into the pillow. She really was tired, but she was worried, too, not just about him but about the future. "Which one of us do you think is going to snap and commit murder first, Greg?" she asked. Very tough call. She was still thinking about it when she fell asleep.

(H/C)

Jensen stuck his head in cautiously the next morning, checking if they were asleep first. House was, but Cuddy was awake and looking out the window, obviously deep in thought. Jensen tapped lightly on the door. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"

"I'm doing better. He had his bad leg cramp up and had to have more pain meds about 2:00 this morning, but overall, he seems to be slowly feeling a little better, I think. His eyes look more like himself every time he wakes up. He is getting more frustrated, too, like you said."

"I can't blame him," Jensen replied. "It must be maddening."

"Can I ask your advice on something, Dr. Jensen?"

"Of course." Jensen dropped into the chair next to her, keeping his voice very low.

"What is the best way to tell his mother and mine to get lost?"

Jensen chuckled softly. "They're getting impatient, too, I know."

"Blythe was actually in here about 11:00 last night stroking the side of his head." Jensen flinched. "She was talking about how she'd go into his room after he was asleep when he was a kid, whenever he'd been hurt, and comfort him, as she called it." Cuddy's eyes flashed. "She might have pulled her head out of the sand and found a few more productive ways to accomplish that. And then there's my mother, who is going to want to stage manage our convalescence. Soon as we get home, she won't leave us in peace. I know her. She'll want to make sure everything is done right, by which she'll mean meds taken, pillows fluffed, hot tea regularly whether we want it or not. We won't have any privacy or processing time." Cuddy sighed. "I just want our lives back, and I'm afraid she's going to want too much of them."

"Realistically," Jensen replied, "you are going to have a period where you two probably cannot function completely independently at home, especially considering Rachel."

"I know. I'll have to be careful what I lift for several weeks, and who knows what time frame we're dealing with on him?" She glanced at House, and her brow furrowed in worry. "He was mentioning before he collapsed that his legs felt off, which he put down to the bruised left one on top of the right. He didn't feel safe carrying Rachel, and that was before we had any idea he had a head injury. His left leg really was badly bruised; that might have been it. Or it might have been balance issues related to the brain injury and be all better now after surgery. Or it might need a longer-term recovery."

"And we can't even evaluate that until he's stronger," Jensen completed.

Cuddy nodded. "Exactly. I know we're going to need help. But with them, we'll have more than we actually need, and there won't be any escape. And Blythe can't really help physically with Rachel anyway, although my mother could."

Jensen considered. "Are you comfortable having your mother care for Rachel, speaking purely about her needs and not about your own wish for occasional privacy?"

"Yes. Mom is a first-class grandmother. She's a first-class anything, wouldn't have it any other way."

"I know Rachel is capable of being discharged at this point. Maybe your mother could take her on home, with possibly some assistance from the nanny for breaks if needed. His mother could go along, even if she wouldn't be able to handle anything alone. That would give them another focus besides the hospital for the moment."

"That's a point. We've kept her here while everything was in full crisis, but the hospital isn't a daycare. And I know the nanny is on hold; Wilson found messages on Greg's voice mail and called her back. Greg apparently had filled her in last week, so she already knew about the wreck, just not about him." Cuddy considered. "That would give Mom something to do now, but the eventual point is to get her _out_ of our house, not move her _into_ it."

"This is a compromise offer. Tell her how much you would appreciate her taking care of Rachel right now. Emphasize the fact that as you said, the hospital isn't a daycare. This is a great chance for time with her granddaughter. Make her feel needed, and then, soon as she's feeling appreciated from that, set firm limits on the other end. Remind your mother of her husband's convalescence, remind his mother of her physical limitations, and tell both of them outright that you two are going to need some privacy and return to normality when you come home. You might have to hire a sitter for Rachel at first, even overnights, but I assume you'd rather have a paid sitter underfoot than your mother."

Cuddy nodded. "A paid sitter at least knows how to limit her attentions to the child unless specifically asked to do something else." She tilted her head, thinking. "That might work. Sort of help us out right now, thanks so much, couldn't do it without you, but here's how it's going to be when we come home?"

"Right. Basically you will have to remind them that it is your house and your life to get back to, but if you set that up in advance so they can prepare for change and expect it, and if you also convince them you will have adequate help then, they will take it better."

"Do you think you could do that?"

Jensen smiled. "I think that specific conversation would come better from you. However, I'd be glad to sit in as a referee if you like."

Cuddy grinned. "I don't know what we would have done without you the last week." She paused, considering. "One week ago today."

The monitors beside her abruptly blipped, and she turned quickly to assess them. Nothing worrying, but House was starting to wake up, and his heart beat realized that before his mind did. Cuddy squeezed his hand, trying to give him another first impression of the day other than his assorted injuries and aches. "Good morning."

His eyes opened slowly and looked across at her, also noting Jensen sitting on the other side of her bed. "Good morning," he said after a moment.

"How are you feeling?"

He was feeling a bit better, actually, though still nothing to write home about. For the first time since coming out of his coma, a metaphor sprang to mind, a sarcastic Housian response to reassure her, but while the concept and the illustration were there, part of the words eluded him. Timing was everything; by the time he finished managing to say it, they would be focused on his speech patterns instead of the joke. He gave a sigh of frustration and looked away.

"Greg?"

"A little better," he replied.

Jensen stood up and went around the nearly adjoining beds. "Since you're feeling a little better, let's see if your writing has improved." He put his notepad on the bed and passed House the pen. "Why don't you write down what you were actually thinking there?"

House hesitated, then took the pen and wrote it out fairly efficiently, the pen once again being far quicker on the uptake than his speech was. The tremors in his hand seemed better at least for the moment. He finished, then pushed the pad into Cuddy's hand, and Cuddy picked it up to read. A smile dawned, and then she started to laugh, passing the pad on to Jensen.

House's writing looked better today, less wobbly than yesterday morning, but it was the message itself that made Jensen smile. He could almost hear it in House's dry tones.

_Like the fourth day of a three-day weekend, but yesterday, it was the third day of a three-day conference with exceptionally idiotic speakers and no Ipod or Gameboy, so overall, a little better. _


	37. Chapter 37

A short while later, breakfast was brought in, including not only Cuddy's tray but for the first time since his awakening one for House. They were not the same, however. House dubiously eyed his Jell-O, juice, and clear liquids and poked the Jell-O with his spoon, as if checking it for reflexes. Cuddy laughed, and he glared at her and then at her tray of eggs and toast. "Trade?" he suggested.

"Nope, that's what the doctor ordered, and that's what you're eating. You haven't actually had anything to eat in 4 1/2 days, Greg. Take it slowly. I already served my time at the beginning of this week."

He mournfully started on the Jell-O. Cuddy and Jensen both were watching him use his hand, noting that there didn't seem to be any coordination problems. Most likely the weakness yesterday morning had just been exhaustion. In fact, by the time he finished the tray, he looked like he was starting to get tired again.

"I'm fine," he snapped, getting annoyed with their analysis. They had been trying to be surreptitious, but of course he noticed.

Just then, Blythe and Susan came through the door of the room. "Greg! You're awake!" Blythe walked over as fast as she could with her quad cane and wrapped him in a hug that was near painful.

"Hi," he said, obviously, at least to Cuddy and Jensen, totally avoiding her title so he wouldn't have to hunt for it.

"Oh, Greg, we were SO worried about you." Blythe bent over for hug, round two, and she had barely let him go when Susan, coming up beside her, took her turn. House's expression of martyrdom made Cuddy feel sorry for him, and she jumped into the pool of family issues with both feet. Jensen was even here at the moment for backup. Perfect.

"I was thinking, Mom, Blythe, you two might be able to help us out."

They released House immediately, turning to face her. "What could we do?" Susan asked.

"Rachel's still in the hospital, you know, but there's no medical reason why she can't go home, and there are plenty of insurance reasons why she's already pushed it on length of stay here. Could you take Rachel to our house? The nanny will be glad to help out, of course. I'll give you her number. But it's a good chance to spend some time with your granddaughter."

"I'd love to, Lisa."

"We want to help any way we can," Blythe chimed in.

"You realize, Blythe, you can't be carrying her yourself."

"Of course, Lisa. I understand. We'll be glad to, and then after you get home. . ."

House closed his eyes in pain that Cuddy was pretty sure was primarily emotional, not physical at the moment, and Cuddy interrupted her. "After we get home, we're going to be hiring somebody to stay there for Rachel, including overnights. We won't be able to take care of her ourselves at first, of course; I'll be on lifting restrictions for a while, and Greg probably will need a little time to finish healing, too. But we'll be hiring somebody, and you two can leave us in good hands."

The women immediately objected in chorus. "But, Lisa, we'd be glad to help."

"We're family. That's what family does."

Jensen came in from the sidelines. "One of the biggest wishes after an accident is just to have things return to normal. I think the two of them are going to need time alone, time to process and start getting their lives back. I'm sure they appreciate your good intentions, but the ultimate goal is return for everybody to your usual lives. For you, Mrs. House, that's in Lexington with all your activities and friends, and for you, Mrs. Cuddy, that's with your husband, who will be going through his own attempt to return to normality after his surgery. He will need you there. I'm sure he's already missing your support and presence."

Susan looked thoughtful and slightly guilty thinking of Robert. "But we should be doing it. They're going to need help."

"We're going to have help," Cuddy promised. "But we hate keeping you here away from everything, and we really just want to get normal back, like Dr. Jensen said. We'll hire help for what we need, but Princeton is our home, and it's not yours. We're going to need some space to deal with everything."

"But Greg isn't going to be able to do things for a long time," Blythe protested. "Walking, tending to Rachel. Who knows how long it will be?"

House still had his eyes shut, but Cuddy looked at the monitors past him and knew this conversation was getting to him. "We'll have help. I promise. But we need space to process things on our own. Please."

Jensen chimed in again. "That is why it's such a good opportunity for you two to spend time with Rachel the next several days. Just think, you can take care of her now, until her parents are discharged, and then the next time you come back next year for a short visit, you can spend time with both of your granddaughters." Susan and Blythe considered that, softening a little at the thought of Abby. "At the bottom line, though, they need to get back to their lives as soon as possible, as near as possible to the way things used to be, and the two of you need to get back to yours. So take advantage of the time with Rachel right now."

The mothers looked dubious but thoughtful. "You will hire some help at first?" Blythe asked.

"Yes. I promise. We'll both be careful not to overdo it."

"I'm sure Rachel would like to see her room and her toys again as soon as possible," Jensen suggested.

Slowly, the women moved toward the door. "I guess that plan makes sense," Susan stated. "We'll go get Rachel and bring her back up for a minute as we leave. See you in a little while, Lisa, Greg."

"See you," Cuddy replied. House didn't reply, and when she looked over at him after the mothers had left, he still had his eyes shut. "Are you all right, Greg?"

Jensen unpropped himself from the far wall. "I'm going down to the cafeteria for my own breakfast. I'll see you later." He departed at a fairly rapid pace for him, and Cuddy looked after him, puzzled. It was almost like he was deliberately leaving them alone right now, but he had left them alone much less abruptly many times so far. It wasn't one of his usual smooth, unobtrusive exits. However, that tickling thought was just a minor impression next to the major one that House was clearly, by vitals, upset, which hadn't decreased when the mothers left.

"Greg? What's the matter?" He opened his eyes to study her, but he didn't speak. "Come on, talk to me. What is it?"

"You didn't want to talk?"

"To talk about what?"

He gritted his teeth in frustration. "Rachel. Do I get a . . . vote?"

Abruptly, she realized that they hadn't talked about it, hadn't even discussed future plans. "I apologize, Greg. I should have waited and talked it over with you first. It was Jensen's idea, really; I was asking him this morning the best way to tell them to get lost. I just jumped on into it at the chance there, while they were in the room, but you're right, we should have discussed it alone." She studied him, still feeling that there was something else. "Jensen called it a compromise offer, give them Rachel now, then immediately lay down the future law for when we come home. I know Rachel will probably get tired of them, but at least she's too young to remember the trauma of several days with her grandparents." She tried to make it a joke, but he wasn't responding. Not even a glint of humor in his eyes. "Do you not like the idea?"

He sighed. "It's fine."

She squeezed his hand. "I wasn't trying to cut you out of the decision, really. I apologize. I do value your input." He still wasn't responding to her much, and his heart rate was still on the high side. "Greg, what is it? You can't tell me something else isn't bothering you. I know you by now, and besides, you're hooked up to a vital signs monitor."

He turned his head, studying the numbers in surprise. "What is it?" she repeated. "Please, talk to me."

After a moment, he said softly, "Mom was right. We have no . . . idea what kind of . . . time frame . . . we're talking about. What if I never . . ." He trailed off.

Cuddy abruptly remembered Blythe's matter-of-fact statement, her simple and unshielded opinion that House would have more significant difficulties ahead physically than Cuddy would. She sighed. "Greg, I was saying that _both _of us are going to need help."

"One more than the . . . other."

"We don't know that yet. We haven't even done full testing. But whatever it is, Greg, we will deal with it. _We_ will deal with it. Together. Have you already forgotten our wedding vows? For better or for worse, in sickness and in health. We'll make it, Greg."

He slammed his left hand abruptly against the rails of the bed. "DAMN that driver!" His next reaction was to snatch that arm abruptly back up, cradling it against his chest. He had smacked himself against the stitches. The monitor numbers really made a jump there.

"Greg, are you okay?" Cuddy started to lean over toward him, flinching as her stitches pulled.

Right then, an ICU nurse hurried into the room, closely followed by Wilson. "What the hell is going on in here?" Wilson demanded. "I was just walking into the unit, and suddenly everything went haywire." The nurse was trying to capture House's left wrist, which he was still cradling tight against his chest and wasn't about to give up. Wilson moved around her, grabbing the extremity himself, and the nurse yielded with relief. "Get me some more morphine," Wilson ordered, looking at the monitor briefly, then returning his attention to the wrist. He moved the rolling over-bed table with the empty breakfast tray aside for better access and leverage. House wasn't giving the arm up.

"No," House demanded. His eyes were still shut, the numbers beside him still far too high.

"House, you need something."

"I need . . . everybody to leave us ALONE!" His shout didn't do much for his headache and didn't even achieve the request. Wilson showed no signs of going anywhere.

"Easy, Greg," Cuddy said softly, capturing his right hand again.

"Let me look at it," Wilson insisted. He and House were in a determined tug-of-war over House's left wrist, which Wilson was gradually winning solely because of House's weakness. "What did you do?"

"He hit it on the rails," Cuddy supplied, trying to spare him the frustration of the explanation at the moment.

"How did you do that accidentally? You're right-handed, shouldn't have been picking up the left that far for anything, not to get it clear out over the rails." Wilson gained another inch in the battle.

"It wasn't accidental," Cuddy admitted.

House abruptly stopped resisting, with the result that the oncologist nearly went flying backwards and lost his balance. He scrambled for a moment to stay upright without dropping House's left wrist, both of which goals he accomplished, although with difficulty. Wilson turned the wrist between his hands, inspecting it. There was blood along the bandage, although not a large amount, and Wilson sighed and began pulling the tape loose. "Why would you . . ."

"Never mind!" House and Cuddy interrupted in absolute unison.

The nurse re-entered with a syringe of morphine. "Put it down and go get me some dressing supplies," Wilson told her. He looked up at House. "Okay, you have 30 seconds to tell me why I shouldn't give you a large dose of morphine right now."

That, of course, just reminded House of how long it took him to actually say things at the moment. Wilson and Cuddy both read his eyes flawlessly, and the oncologist sighed. "Damn it, that wasn't what I meant." He succeeded in getting the dressing off and inspected the sutures. They clearly had been smacked straight across the cut, and there was oozing around some of them, although none had torn. "I don't think you did any real damage, but I wouldn't advise doing that again." He looked up and divided his gaze between House and Cuddy. "What's going on?"

Just then, the neonatologist entered the room. "Good morning! I'm glad you're both awake; I thought we might discuss Abby's course thus far." The nurse entered after him and handed fresh bandaging materials to Wilson.

"House needs another dose of morphine right now," Wilson said, looking at the numbers on the monitor, which still didn't look good.

House closed his eyes. "Go ahead. Talk about . . . everything without me."

"No," Cuddy replied firmly. "We either both get an update right now, or neither of us does. Wilson, could you give him just a partial dose? Just knock the edge off a little." The monitor numbers were worrying her, but House's mental state at the moment was worrying her more. "Is that okay, Greg?"

He opened his eyes, meeting hers and searching for any pity or patronizing. All he saw was concern mixed with sincerity. She really would turn down an update on their daughter right now in order to share it. "Okay. Not much."

Wilson picked up the syringe and injected about a third of it. "Give it a minute," he requested of the neonatologist, who was looking from one to the other of the room's occupants like he'd been dropped in the middle of a tennis match.

By the time Wilson got House's wrist rebandaged, the numbers on the screen had started to creep down, and House didn't look quite as much like he was clenching his teeth. Wilson stepped back a token half step from the bed, still staying perfectly close, and picked up the remaining morphine, holding the syringe between his fingers. "Okay, go."

The neonatologist looked from House to Cuddy, and both of them nodded. "Abby is one week old today," he started. "The fact that she's survived that week is an excellent sign. Don't get me wrong; she isn't out of the woods, and we're still months away from discharge even if all goes well. But the majority of non surviving premies die in the first 48 hours."

"What about the bleed?" Cuddy asked.

"It is starting to recede, and it never went past Grade II. Her pressure wasn't high to the point that I would expect permanent brain damage. Her oximetry has continued to be unstable at times, which simply goes with the territory. As long as she gets immediate attention from the nurses, we can manage that. Down the road, both of you will be learning infant CPR and how to cope with apnea episodes. There is one new concern this morning, a fever. We've drawn full cultures and started broad-spectrum antibiotics empirically while waiting. I would be surprised if she didn't have a few rounds of infection during her course. We're continuing the surfactant for the lungs, but again, we've got a long way to go to independent breathing. But overall, she has survived to this point, and she seems to be a fighter."

Cuddy smiled. "In a best case scenario, when do you think she might come home?"

"The soonest is usually around the actual due date, so mid January. I wouldn't expect her home for Christmas, I'm afraid."

House flinched, thinking of all the unpleasant things of Christmas past. He and Cuddy had been talking about how to make this one a positive one, a time for Rachel, a time for hopeful anticipation of their daughter's birth in January. How rapidly plans and hopes could change. At this point, the goal was to have their daughter still be alive on Christmas, even if still hospitalized.

Cuddy squeezed his hand. "Maybe we could celebrate Christmas late."

House snorted. "We can't move . . . dates."

"The date of Christmas isn't accurate anyway, not even for Christians," Wilson pointed out. "If you're just having a family celebration, January 25th is as good as December 25th. No reason it can't be."

"We've got time to discuss it. And we will, together, and decide," Cuddy said pointedly. House's hand twitched in hers. "So doctor, overall, what do you think her chances are?"

"Better than they were a week ago. Not as good as they would have been with a few more weeks of gestation. But she is hanging on for us. She seems like a strong one. I'm cautiously optimistic."

"Thank you," Cuddy replied. Right then, the neonatologist's pager went off, and he looked down at it and then excused himself.

Footsteps sounded up the hall, and House abruptly raised his head. "Give me .. ." He reached out toward the syringe, not even taking time to fight for the word. "Now!"

"But a few minutes ago, you didn't want any at all. Oh," Wilson replied, light dawning as he recognized a voice outside the room. He quickly injected the remainder of the syringe. "Have a nice nap, House."

Blythe and Susan came into the room, Rachel in Susan's arms. "Look who's here!" Blythe exclaimed.

House's eyelids were starting to droop, but he smiled at his daughter. "Hi . . . Rachel."

Wilson stepped back, dropping the empty syringe into the sharps container. "I just gave him another dose of morphine. His vitals were getting a little unstable again. You two don't need to stay long."

Both women gave House a worried look. "Okay," Susan replied. "We were just popping in for a minute."

Cuddy squeezed House's hand. "Don't fight it, Greg. You can see Rachel some other time."

"Okay," he replied, voice trailing off slightly on the end.

Blythe stepped forward to give him a quick hug, then retreated. "Get well, Gregory. We'll be back some other time." Susan came over to let Cuddy kiss Rachel, and then the two mothers left.

Cuddy closed her eyes. The roller coaster of the last hour had worn her out, and she was ready for a nap herself. "Want me to get another syringe?" Wilson asked, only half joking.

Cuddy shook her head. "Too much temptation. If I had one around here, I'd eventually use it as a dart."

Wilson laughed. He made one final check of House's vitals, which were dropping nicely back down to baseline, and then he turned back to Cuddy. "Why did he hit the rails?"

"He was frustrated," Cuddy replied. She didn't give details as to cause.

Wilson sighed. "I can't blame him. I would be, too." He turned to leave. "Have a nice nap, you two."

"We will." Cuddy looked over at House after Wilson had left. "You are not going to be a handicapped burden on us, you idiot, no matter what happens. And we _will _get through things. Is that understood?" He didn't reply. Silence gives consent. "Good. And don't you forget it." Wishing it were that easy, she let herself drift off into sleep.


	38. Chapter 38

While going through the line, Wilson spotted Jensen having breakfast, and he took his tray over and dropped into the other side of the booth. "Morning."

"Good morning, James," Jensen replied. "How are you holding up?" They kept their voices low, but the cafeteria was bustling at the moment, a hum of rush-hour conversation, providing the privacy of excess noise.

"Okay, I think. It felt really good to actually sleep in my own bed last night." He immediately jumped trains from himself to his friends. "When I went in to check on House a few minutes ago, would you believe he had just slammed his wrist into the bed rail? Straight across the stitches. He was just about shaking with the pain, but he didn't want anything for it at first. Stubborn idiot."

Jensen had just been sitting here thinking about House, of course. He hoped House and Cuddy had managed to talk through a few things when he left them alone. He'd seen difficulties on the horizon as soon as Cuddy started to talk to the mothers, but with everyone right there in the room, he'd had no way to stop her and had been forced to play along. But she definitely should have discussed it with House. When Jensen suggested the strategy, he hadn't meant that she should completely eliminate House from the decision. Blythe's oblivious assessment of future disability and convalescence hadn't helped much either, but that wouldn't have hit quite so hard had House not already been upset at being shut out and discounted. "Did he hurt himself?" Jensen asked.

"Some minor bleeding around the stitches. Not too bad. It had just been looking less inflamed from the infection, too, and he decides to hit it on the rails." Wilson shook his head. "I can understand he's frustrated, but hurting himself worse isn't going to help. I gave him some more meds; he ought to be sleeping all morning."

"By the way, speaking of his hands, I was watching him eat breakfast. He wasn't having problems handling a spoon with his right hand. I really think his difficulties yesterday were just exhaustion. His writing looks steadier this morning, too."

"Good. We need to get a full neurological evaluation on him." Wilson sighed. "I hope the language difficulties are it. If he has balance or coordination issues, especially with walking, it's going to be that much harder for him given his leg anyway. The bruising on the left is beginning to fade, but that alone is going to take a while to go away completely. It was deep into the muscle. I'm not sure he's strong enough right now to try to walk anyway, and I'm not sure how valid the results would be yet. Hard to split acute leg injury, chronic leg injury, and brain damage. We'll probably do another MRI at least today, get some reading on how things look. Long term, they're going to need some help for at least a while."

"Dr. Cuddy and I were discussing that this morning. She's going to let the mothers take Rachel home and keep her at the moment, but when she and Dr. House are discharged, they'll hire help, and the mothers have already been told that's when they need to bow out and go home."

"I can do it," Wilson objected, his need-alert immediately going off. "They don't have to pay somebody."

"Bad idea for two reasons, James. First is that you also need to resume your normal life as quickly as possible, just as they do. You can of course help out to some extent, when and only when they ask, but you do not need to appoint yourself their caretaker. When they are discharged, it's time to back away and let them handle things." Wilson started to protest, then closed his mouth, thinking about it. "I know you want to. They know you want to, too, and I'm sure they will let you help out some. But you have to allow them to set the boundaries on that. You don't need to decide yourself once they get home what they need and what's best, and you know you would if you were staying with them."

Wilson sighed, his shoulders drooping. "You're right. I would. Damn it, this is hard sometimes."

"Aren't you curious about the second reason? That one has nothing to do with you. You aren't the only one with issues we're dealing with here."

Wilson's curiosity rose. "Okay, what's the second reason?"

"The mothers, as I said. We established a compromise offer, Rachel now, but they know they'll have to leave later. They were reluctant on that and will continue to be. Can't you see the tremendous difference from their perspective between knowing they're not needed because professional help would be hired and knowing they're not needed because a friend is going to take their place instead?" Wilson's eyebrows rose as that point registered. "It is much more palatable to family to be replaced by hired help than to be replaced by a friend. They can keep the illusion on the first that this is a matter of convenience, not a matter of personal preference. On the second, there's no possible way to avoid that conclusion."

"Wow. I wasn't even thinking of their perspective. I can definitely see the point there." He nodded. "Okay, I'll try to hang back a little once they're out unless they ask me specifically for something. By the way, update on Abby this morning from the neonatologist. She's hanging tough, although she seems to have picked up an infection now. The neonatologist said best discharge scenario is mid January."

"Possibly for the best. She, of course, will need intense monitoring and care, more so than a usual baby. They need a chance to heal first."

Wilson nodded regretfully. "Cuddy suggested delaying Christmas, so they could have a homecoming too. I know House has always had some issues with Christmas. I'd try to spend it with him every year, but I could tell there was something else going on." He'd spent it with House except for the one year he'd walked out on him after House's overdose, Wilson remembered guiltily. He quickly went on. "I hope they do postpone it. Be nice for them to get some good Christmas associations."

Jensen knew more about House's holiday reluctance than Wilson did, but he didn't say so. "What were you thinking about there in the middle? You're feeling guilty again."

"Not here," Wilson replied, looking around, although the cafeteria was still bustling with nobody paying them any attention. Nothing in the environment had changed in the past five minutes.

Still, Jensen allowed the dodge. "Okay. We'll hit that on some future session."

"I"m looking forward to plain old office appointments again. Nothing personal, but nobody wants to see his psychiatrist this much."

Jensen laughed. "Believe me, I'm looking forward to plain old office appointments again, too." He stood up, collecting his tray. "I have some shopping to do today, but I'll have my cell phone, of course, and I'll be back this afternoon."

Wilson was left staring at his own plate in confusion after the psychiatrist departed. Shopping?


	39. Chapter 39

Evening, readers. Good grief, I appreciate the feedback and knowing you all are out there, and I'm glad you're into the plot, but honestly, how many fics get updated daily? Guess I should have applied for a leave of absence for a few days last night.

My Mom's birthday is on Friday. We're planning a "party" at the nursing home, to attempt to celebrate, although there isn't much left to. I just hope she is at least pleasant to everybody, even if she doesn't remember all of them. Family is coming in from long distance today through then for that, so my time has been committed preparing for all that, plus work (I do have a full-time job, and it isn't writing, although I wish it were). To top it off, Mom has apparently had a small stroke in the last day. I say apparently because we are not going to take her to the hospital and are not going to run tests, because since we aren't going to actively treat anything and are at comfort care only, what's the point of evaluation? The move would only uproot and unsettle her, and no matter what tests showed, it wouldn't change what we're doing. I really thought I'd get another chapter done and posted before getting so tied up with things at the end of this week, but plans change. It has been a busy last day, and the next couple aren't likely to improve on that much.

The story will be finished. I won't leave it hanging. But it will be finished when I have time to fit it in, and these couple of days aren't it.

Go back and reread if you need some fic, or try to imagine what Jensen is shopping for. :)


	40. Chapter 40

When Jensen knocked at the door of the hospital room late that afternoon, there was only one occupant. Cuddy was in bed analyzing the far wall with a worried frown. She looked over as the psychiatrist knocked. "Hi. Come on in."

Jensen entered and sat down in the visitor's chair, putting the large bag he was carrying by his feet. "Where is Dr. House?"

"He's getting an MRI. They wanted to compare now to Saturday night." She sighed. "I blew it this morning, didn't I?"

"Your motives were good, but that approach was not quite what I meant to suggest."

She shook her head. "I swear, it never occurred to me that I hadn't talked to him first. He just looked so . . . martyred being squeezed to death by the mothers that I wanted to help him by getting rid of them right then. I didn't realize I was taking away his vote, as he put it. Of course, Blythe didn't help matters much. Just because she isn't bothered by disability doesn't mean he isn't."

"He did tell you what was bothering him?" Jensen asked.

"Yes. Pretty quickly after you left us alone."

"That's good, actually. He is getting better. Telling you now is much better than bottling it up and refusing to let himself feel it."

"I shouldn't have done that, though."

"No, you shouldn't have. Nor should Dr. Wilson have done only a limited exam on him, nor should the ER staff apparently have done the same. Nor should the drunk driver have been out driving. But as I was trying to tell James the other night, now that it's established that you should have acted differently, what difference does dwelling constantly on that guilt make? Assigning blame rarely helps solve situations, at least in relationships."

Cuddy sighed again. "I know. It's just . . ." She trailed off.

"Think about moving forward instead," Jensen suggested. "There are plenty of difficulties ahead without obsessing on things you can't change. How did he seem the rest of today?"

"He slept most of the day after Wilson gave him some more morphine. He had slammed his wrist on the bed rail, right across the stitches, while we were talking." She immediately diverted back to her former topic. "I shouldn't have done that."

Jensen had often thought he needed to be part sheepdog in his profession. He gently edged her back. "So he hurt himself because he was mad at you?"

For the first time, Cuddy stopped to think about that sequence. "No, actually. At least not right then. He was mad at the driver."

Jensen had figured his target on an action that violent and definite couldn't be Cuddy. "I didn't think it was you. That was focusing on the person whose fault all of this actually is, although again, knowing fault doesn't overcome the problems, and hurting himself didn't help anything. Anyway, how did he seem when he woke up?"

"Quiet. He seems to be actually talking less, although I try to prompt him. I think he's trying to just avoid problem areas."

Jensen had been afraid he'd settle into that one. "Keep at it. I know he's frustrated, but he needs to keep working on it to improve."

"The neurosurgeon and Wilson came in after that, and they did the most complete exam they've managed so far. Several neurological tests. He actually did pretty well, I thought, writing out the memory item answers instead of saying them. The speech problems were all that jumped out at me. But then Greg insisted on trying to walk, which both of them disagreed with." Cuddy shook her head. "He could barely stand up with help; walking was out of the question. Of course, we all know how weak he is just from the coma, and there's his hurt leg, plus the bad one. I could tell he was disappointed, though. He stopped resisting them then, and he didn't object to taking the gurney down for the MRI." She sighed once more. "Stubborn idiot. He couldn't possibly tell at this point if he's going to have balance problems from the brain injury or not, even the neurosurgeon was saying that, but he just _had _to try. And now he thinks he failed, but he didn't really. He's just getting frustrated with everything." She looked over at Jensen abruptly. "Dr. Jensen, how long are you going to stay in Princeton?"

"Until he asks me to leave," Jensen replied simply. Cuddy stared at him, caught off guard by the unexpected answer. "He asked me to come, even if under mistaken premises, but I'm very glad I did. He'll tell me when he wants me to go, and on some level, he realizes that."

She let out a deep breath. "Thank you. He's . . . calmer when you're around. You've done so much for him."

"And he for me," Jensen noted. "How are you feeling yourself?"

"It still hurts any time I move in bed, but it's starting to just hurt, not feel like I'm being torn into pieces. They said I could probably try getting out of bed carefully tomorrow, starting slowly at first, of course. I thought I might take a trip to NICU in a wheelchair and see Abby." Her smile slowly spread across the worry and conquered it, at least momentarily. "I know I can't actually go in, can't take dirty wheelchair wheels into that environment, but I could at least look through the window. Everybody's seen her except me, it seems." She looked over at Jensen suddenly. "Have you seen her?"

"Only once through the window," he told her. "I'll admit to being curious, but I didn't try to go in. You'll be able to go in yourself before long."

Her smile slowly faded. "Do you think we can ever possibly get back to normal after this?"

"If you mean like your life was before, no, I don't." Again, it wasn't the answer she'd expected, and she looked at him in surprise. Jensen smiled at her. "You've added another child to your family. That will change things; it would for anybody. But I think both of you are quite strong enough to adapt to it successfully, and you are wonderful parents. Abby will be fortunate to have you."

Cuddy felt a warmth spreading through her as she thought about the future. Somehow, thinking about the future like any parent adding a second child, instead of thinking about the accident, helped. There was life after hospitals. There was a future ahead for all of them, hopefully including Abby. "Thank you," she said to Jensen, but a second later, the worried frown between her eyes had returned. "I just hope Greg isn't too hard on himself along the way."

(H/C)

House lay motionless in the MRI. The heavy thud, thud of the machine normally reminded him of some sort of outsized, Frankenstein monster heartbeat, leading to sardonic comparisons of himself to the mad scientist, but today, it reminded him of footsteps. Strong footsteps. Footsteps from powerful legs. He closed his eyes.

"House?" Wilson, of course, piping up like an annoying older brother, looking out for his poor, weak, defenseless sibling. "You okay?"

"Yes," House replied, not opening his eyes.

"Does the noise hurt your head?" They'd given him earplugs to damp it somewhat.

"I'm _fine,_" House snarled.

Nobody could have possibly missed the subtext on that one, and even Wilson backed off a little, although House could still sense his hovering presence, could feel the concerned eyes on him.

Eyes on him. He wondered how many times in the future his own daughters, Rachel and Abby, would look at him puzzled because he couldn't do things they wanted, and then as they grew older would progress to resigned understanding that he would never be able to do some things they wanted. He would never be able to do everything the fathers of their friends at school did, even if he returned to his usual baseline.

He was bitterly disappointed at the lack of any useful results from trying to stand up and walk earlier. Of course, he _knew _his body and strength were still significantly affected by the several-day coma, just as he knew that his deep muscle bruising on the left thigh, turning the upper leg mauve at this point, would take more healing time. Still, he wanted to know exactly how much of his progressive problems with ambulation in those two days had been due to bruised muscles stiffening up as adrenaline wore off and how much due to the brain injury. He was certain his balance itself had been off at least right at the end before his collapse. Was it better now after surgery and relief of the intracranial pressure? Or was that another lasting disability to add to his list?

He wanted to know. And he couldn't know yet. And that was the wrong answer. He wanted to know _now _if he would ever be able to carry his girls. His lips twisted slightly in a humorless quirk as he thought of asking his Magic 8 Ball. It was as likely to give him a legitimate answer as asking his body right now would.

"House?" Wilson again.

"Nothing," he snapped, eyes still closed.

Nothing. A good assessment of what all his effort earlier had told him.

The heavy, metallic footfalls continued to echo through the MRI machine, pacing around him with powerful steps while he lay still, helpless.


	41. Chapter 41

Jensen was still sitting with Cuddy when the gurney returned. "Well?" she immediately asked Wilson.

"Looking better, but we're waiting for a full report. Dawson is printing off the films so he can bring them down here, and House can see it all, too. Not as good as the radiology lab, but a wall light box is better than nothing." The attendants pushing the gurney brought it up alongside the bed and positioned themselves, and Wilson looked firmly at House. "You don't try to help us out, understand?"

House merely nodded. There was no spirit at all behind it, and Jensen cringed inwardly. Wilson should have deleted that comment; the reminder was unnecessary at the moment and had just been another emphasis on his current weakness. Wilson's slight tightening of the eyes told Jensen that he himself realized that a few seconds too late. Or maybe he had been trying to poke his friend into some show of spirit. If so, it hadn't worked. "Okay, on three," the oncologist continued. "One, two, three." The several hands moved House over into his own hospital bed. "I've got it from here," Wilson stated, and the gurney and attendants departed. Wilson took more time than he needed to reattaching the monitors, making sure the IV was straight, and adjusting the head of the bed.

Jensen was fully focused on House. He looked not only discouraged but exhausted, a very bad combination. Jensen decided regretfully that he was too tired after the couple of hours of tests to initiate further plans at the moment. An agenda to make him feel better that backfired through exhaustion would be counterproductive.

"Are you okay, Greg?" Cuddy asked, concern clear in her voice. She reached out from her own bed and captured his right hand again.

"Fine," he replied. How pathetic was it to be worn out by an MRI, when he had just been lying still during it? Wilson could have saved his breath; House didn't think he was capable of contributing anything to the process of moving himself over into the bed right now.

Wilson studied the monitors. "I'll get you some more pain meds," he stated.

"After the . . . results. I can at least listen." That was actually the longest statement he'd made in over an hour since the failed attempt at walking.

Wilson debated. He could tell House was in pain. His eyes met Jensen over the beds, and Jensen shook his head minutely. "Well, Dawson should be here soon," Wilson said. "After that, and after you two eat dinner, we'll put you out for the night."

Like a baby, House thought. Put him down for early bedtime and naps, make sure he was fed. Catheters were at least a bit more convenient than diapers.

Jensen spoke up. "Dr. Cuddy and I were just talking about Abby a while ago." House's tense features softened a fraction, and Cuddy fielded the toss.

"I'm jealous, actually. You've seen her. I'm running behind everybody."

"You'll catch up," House replied, but the attempt at reassurance was there.

"I was thinking of going down tomorrow." She saw the protest building and cut it off. "In a wheelchair. I know I can't walk down to NICU right away. I'm not strong enough yet after everything." She squeezed his hand. "But just seeing her through the window would be wonderful. Just think of Christmas in January, when we bring her home. Her plus Rachel." House smiled faintly, although he hoped he wouldn't be the third member of Cuddy's roster of children. "I had a call from Mom while you were gone, by the way. Rachel is glad to be back with all her toys and is doing great. They'll bring her tomorrow morning for a short visit."

"Her in the morning means Abby would work better in the afternoon," Jensen noted. "Sounds like a more pleasant day for you."

"Yes. I can't wait to see Abby, but probably I will fit that in after lunch, when I've got a while just to sit there." She smiled at House. "We'll be seeing her together before long. I can't wait to actually hold her."

"You can be first," House said. "I haven't held . . . her. Just touched."

Cuddy's smile widened. "We'll do it together, Greg. We'll take turns together. That will be a while down the road yet anyway. We'll have plenty of time to get well while she is."

Right then, Dawson entered the room, a stack of printout films, several images per page, in his hands. "Okay, here's where things stand." He crossed over to the wall light box, not too far past House's bed, and turned it on, putting on the first page. "First of all, this is from Saturday night."

House actually sat up a little straighter, his eyes going intent, the diagnostician taking over. He had heard people's reports, but seeing it in black and white was even more powerful. He knew it had been bad, but he himself was surprised. His prognosis for a patient with this scan would have been very bad. Cuddy's hand tightened further on his, and he glanced over to see her eyes absolutely wide with horror. It was the first time she had seen the Saturday night films, too. "Dear God," she whispered. Wilson was watching House and deliberately looking away from the light box. He had seen it already, had seen it live on the MRI screen Saturday night, and he had turned quickly away from the screen to vomit on the floor of the control booth. In those moments and for hours and days since, he had feared he had killed his friend's mind, if not actually his body. No, he never wanted to look at the MRI from Saturday night again.

Dawson was purely clinical. It was a case to him, albeit an interesting one. "As you can see, there was significant intracranial pressure from the bleed. We went straight into surgery from the MRI room, and the pressure was immediately drained. Microsurgery to repair the arteries took longer. You were on the table several hours. Nice, tight repair, though." His voice was impressed at his own skill. Wilson wanted to thank him and hit him simultaneously for treating this just like a generic surgery on anybody.

The neurosurgeon whipped the page off and replaced it. "And _this_ is just now." Wilson turned back around to look, although he'd seen this one live, too. "The repair looks good, no leaks apparent. ICP normal. There is some slight damage visible on the left along the language control center, but nothing else jumps out at me. Overall, it's an amazing result, I'd say. Judging from the neuro tests earlier, memory is fully intact, and the speech difficulties can most likely be improved with therapy. I certainly think you'll be fully able to work once past the initial recovery."

Work actually wasn't the primary thing on House's mind. "What about . . . walking?"

"No way to tell yet. I told you that earlier, and you didn't listen to me, so I don't know why you'd believe me now. I see nothing to indicate that it would be a problem once you are healed up and stronger, although MRIs are not 100%, of course. The human brain is infinitely complex, even more so than our equipment. Things can . . ."

Wilson cut across the purely clinical report before Dawson could dig further into things they might have missed. "Thank you, Dawson, I'm sure we all appreciate it. You can go now."

Jensen spoke up smoothly. "Did you have any further questions, Dr. House? Dr. Cuddy?" His eyes were on Wilson in a gentle, understanding rebuke, and the oncologist looked away again.

"No," House stated. Cuddy would have liked to ask more timeframe questions, but she sensed that her husband couldn't take much more of this right now and would read worst case scenario into everything anyway.

"Thank you, Dr. Dawson," she said, completely sincerely. She was still cringing inside at the memory of that MRI from Saturday night, at the lopsided appearance as the constantly building bleed put pressure on House's brain.

Dawson pulled down the films. "It's an interesting case, really. You might come up at a neurosurgeon conference down the road."

"Thank you, Dr. Dawson," Wilson repeated pointedly, and Dawson left the room.

Cuddy closed her eyes. "You okay?" House asked instantly.

She nodded. "Just grateful. I can't believe you were as functional as you were those days, especially Saturday."

"Love and adrenaline are a powerful combination," Jensen observed. "I'll leave you two now; I think you could _both_ use an early night after dinner. But I'll be back tomorrow." He stood up, deliberately letting the bag rustle both as he stood and as he picked it up.

House's attention focused. "What's in the . . . bag?"

"Oh, I went shopping. I'll show you tomorrow." Jensen turned for the door. "Good night, everybody."

House looked at Wilson. "Shopping?"

The oncologist shrugged. "Don't ask me. I'm just as much in the dark as you are."

Dinner came in shortly after that, followed by pain meds. House was clearly preoccupied, not only with his weakness but also with the new mystery competing for his attention. It was only after he was asleep that Cuddy realized that Jensen had planted that distraction seed deliberately. She smiled, grateful again for the psychiatrist. "Good night, Greg," she said, tightening her grip on his hand, moving her fingers slightly to feel his strong, regular pulse. Reassured by its rhythm, she drifted off into sleep herself.

Wilson had left them alone after administering the meds, but he waited just outside, just far enough beyond the door that he didn't think a preoccupied Cuddy and a medicated House would notice. He stayed there watching them until long after they both were asleep, his own eyes on the monitor screen next to House, reassuring himself that just maybe, eventually, it might all be all right after all. Finally, he turned away and headed home.


	42. Chapter 42

House opened his eyes. Coming awake was still a bit more of a process than usual, the annoying feeling that parts of his brain came online slightly unevenly bothering him more than the headache.

"Good morning," Cuddy said, smiling at him as he looked over at her.

He chased the word before even trying to speak. "Morning." Damn, this was frustrating. He had been shocked himself at the MRI from Saturday night, and he knew now that he was lucky to have come off so lightly, but it was still frustrating. To not have fluid rhythm of speech, to not be able to communicate in any way that would emphasize what he wanted to say instead of the halting way he said it. He suddenly remembered how he had mocked Foreman for his difficulties after his fellow's illness and brain injury.

But Foreman had been drifting along, happy just to be alive, hadn't been pushing himself. Foreman hadn't been trying to improve.

House himself _wasn't _content to stay like this, damn it. He wasn't just a pathetic weakling like John had thought he was. An image of hell flashed through his mind again, endless stairs through the fog, endlessly falling.

"Greg?" He realized he had closed his eyes again, and he reopened them and looked over at Cuddy. She was dividing a worried look between him and the monitor by his head. "Are you okay? Your pulse is spiking again."

Breathe. Deep, even breaths. Couldn't worry her. "I'm okay," he assured her. She looked less than convinced, and he doggedly pushed himself to go on. "How are the . . .girls? . . . Anything new?"

"No update this morning, but I haven't been awake that long myself." She squeezed his hand. "I can't wait to see Abby. Greg?" She hesitated.

"What?"

"Tell me about your grandmother leading you out of hell."

Immediately he looked away. "She led . . . me out. Simple." He could hear his heart rate climbing again on the panel.

Cuddy gave a mental sigh. Jensen was right; every time he thought about "hell," his vitals jumped. He needed to talk through it, to process it by sharing it, but how could they get past the frustration of talking? It was frustrating enough to listen to him, and she had to force herself not to fill in blanks. She couldn't blame him for being impatient with himself. "Did she say anything to you?"

"No." He attempted to change the subject. "Where's . . . breakfast?"

"Are you hungry?" He nodded, although he wasn't really, but he heard the hopeful note in her voice, looking for any signs that he was physically getting better. "It should be here soon. How is the headache?"

"Little better. Just . . . drills, not . . . cannons." He gritted his teeth. He would never take speech for granted again.

"What about your legs?"

He stretched them out gingerly, assessing. The right thigh still felt like a shark was swimming below the surface, just waiting to bite, and the left one was still deeply sore. "Not so good."

"It will get better." She tightened her grip on his hand. "It _will _get better, Greg." He didn't look convinced, and she said, "I'm looking forward to getting up myself, but I'll probably be edging around like a 90-year-old for a while. There are medical reasons this is taking a while. We'll both be a lot better by the time Abby comes home."

He sighed. "Do you really want to move . . . Christmas?"

"Yes. We'll have a wonderful family celebration, no parents, just us and the girls. Give it some good memories." She hesitated, then pushed on tentatively, still feeling that he had so much he wanted to say, _needed _to say, if he could. If he wouldn't talk about hell, maybe he would at least talk about something. "What happened on Christmas?"

He could remember opening the occasional gifts from his father, realizing the true purpose intended behind them. The new belts which he could already imagine snaking down onto his bare skin. The rabbit cage which had had his head later shoved through the door and tied there around the neck, leaving him wedged awkwardly and trapped for hours, face to face with a rabbit who looked as frightened as he did. Greg had set the rabbit free the next night, smashing the door of the cage, making it look like vandalism, and he remembered envying the rabbit as it hopped off in escape. It had been worth the beating. Then there had been the set of tools which were "useful for almost everything," as John put it with chilling subtext.

Greg had preferred the more frequent times when his father gave him nothing. John never genuinely gave him anything, not a true gift. If any sort of group of friends or more rarely family was together for the occasion, though, John would give him a present for the public show, to look right, and would be watching like a hawk as his son opened it, making sure his son realized the true purpose, hearing Greg choke out a thanks while others looked on approvingly. Of course, any worthwhile gift from anybody else was destroyed. His birthday had been the same. He'd grown to dread holidays, and holidays with gatherings were worse than holidays alone.

"Greg?" Cuddy's voice again. "You don't have to tell me, but if you want to, I'd listen."

"How long do . . . you have?" he snapped, annoyed at himself, not her.

"A lifetime," she answered simply.

He looked over at her, startled. Finally, he started to speak. "He'd give . . . presents that were . . . tools he wanted to use. . . it would look right, but . . .he meant . . ." He trailed off in frustration. "Everybody would smile. . . they thought . . .it was good, but . . . he meant . . . something else, and . . . I would have to thank . . . him. . . they all liked . . . them. Only . . . we knew." He gritted his teeth.

Cuddy was putting that together. "You mean he would give you gifts in public that he meant to use privately for . . . other ways? And you'd have to act grateful?" He nodded. "And on your birthday?" He nodded again. "We definitely need to redefine Christmas, Greg. It won't be like that us. It won't be like that for our girls. Gifts are _good _things." No wonder he had always through the years looked for the subtext behind anything he was given and avoided gifts at all if possible.

Breakfast came in right then, a welcome change of subject for him. He still wasn't up to the same breakfast she got, but using his hands was getting easier, at least. His strength in them, if not his legs, was improving the further he got from the coma. He and Cuddy ate in silence, and he had nearly finished his plate when Cuddy tore off a small bite of her cinnamon roll and tossed it onto his tray. He looked over at her in surprise. "A gift," she said. "No subtext except enjoy it, but don't tell Wilson." He wasn't on a full diet yet, but one miniscule bite wouldn't hurt him. She'd seen his longing look at that cinnamon roll.

"Don't tell Wilson what?" Right on cue, the oncologist walked in.

House quickly scarfed down the small morsel. It wasn't even a full bite, but it tasted heavenly. Three quick chews, and it was gone. "Nothing," he replied.

Wilson looked from one to the other of them. "What's going on that I don't know about?"

"The question," Cuddy clarified, "is what's going on that you need to know about? And the answer, as Greg said, is nothing."

"Just as long as the two of you act like good, cooperative patients." House immediately put on a face of such angelic innocence that the halo was practically visible, and Wilson chuckled. "Yeah, I know. How are you both feeling this morning?"

"Better," Cuddy replied, with House the echo right behind it.

Just then, Jensen knocked at the door. The psychiatrist had deliberately arrived early in the morning this time, hoping to precede tiredness. "Good morning! How is everybody?"

"We're slowly getting better," Cuddy supplied, but House's attention was on the rustling bag Jensen was carrying.

"What have . . . you got?"

"A gift," Jensen replied. House flinched slightly. "A _good _gift," the psychiatrist continued. "No hidden meanings." He knew a good many more holiday details from the past than anybody else in the room other than House.

"Why would . . . you get . . . something for me?"

"Because I like you and I wanted to," the psychiatrist stated. "And there's nothing you can do to change that, no matter how hard you try, so deal with it." He set the bag down and took the empty breakfast tray off House's rolling bed table, stacking it on top of Cuddy's tray. "It's actually meant to help in your recovery. It's a coordination toy for you. The legs are injured right now, and we can't do anything to speed up that, but what you can do with your hands is a good indication of your general motor functioning."

House rolled his eyes. "From a . . . toy store? Fitting . . . pegs in . . . holes? I can't wait."

Jensen shook his head. "I'd never give you something that boring," he objected, and House grinned after a moment, conceding the point. With the empty table still in position, Jensen pulled out a coil from the shopping bag. House identified it instantly, although it took Cuddy and Wilson a few seconds. Jensen carefully unrolled the piano mat, arranging it on the table. "This one has a sound damper," he explained, indicating the switch. "A gift to parents to keep their kids from driving them nuts. It can play softly. It seems to be volume alone that hurts you, not, for instance, the electronic noise from the monitors. Right?"

House didn't answer, but his head was cocked slightly sideways as he studied the piano mat, his eyes bright. He reached out to hit a fragment of melody. Jensen watched him carefully, but it didn't seem to be hurting his ears. After a moment, the left arm came up to join it, and House started to play. Between his bandaged wrist and the IVs, there wasn't quite full freedom of motion, but the music was still there, right at his fingertips. No hesitation. No scrambling. Nothing lost in translation. He closed his eyes.

Jensen was conducting his own analysis. He had additional plans, but he needed to make sure the piano mat worked first. He watched the hands, sizing up dexterity as well as the link from House's mind. There was a little bit of stiffness, understandably with the lines and the stitched left wrist, but the channel from House's brain was receiving without static, and the tones did not seem to be worsening the headache. Step one, Jensen thought. Leave it for a little while before pushing on.

Cuddy watched House's face, which had relaxed and looked less tense than before. Other than the bandage around his head, he almost looked like he might have at home. Wilson watched the monitors, noting how Abby was not the only member of the House family who responded physically to music.

House finished his current piece and seamlessly modulated into another one. He opened his eyes. "Thanks." There was a simple sincerity behind it that many of the PPTH medical staff wouldn't have believed him capable of producing.

"You're welcome," Jensen replied. He glanced at his watch. "James, could I talk to you for a few minutes?"

Wilson was puzzled. "Sure," he replied, stepping away. "Back in a few minutes," he said, although he doubted House or Cuddy would have even noticed his absence. The diagnostician was wrapped up in the music, and Cuddy was immersed in watching him produce it. Wilson followed the psychiatrist out of the room. "That was a good idea," he said.

"I hope so. I'm trying a few things, trying to find activities that aren't as limited as speech for him. It should help with the frustration." Jensen looked around. "Is there somewhere private we could talk for a few minutes?"

Wilson suddenly started feeling like an errant pupil heading for the principal's office. "We can go to my office, I guess."

"That would be fine," Jensen replied. Once they were there, Wilson dropped into his desk chair, and Jensen sat down across from him.

"What is it?" the oncologist asked. "If it's about House . . ."

"Actually, it's about you. He's not the main focus at this particular moment. You didn't want to look at that first MRI in the room yesterday."

Wilson shrugged. "I'd already seen it when it was done."

"Which doesn't explain you completely turning your back on the wall box and swallowing hard several times. You were having a physiological reaction to it."

"It was a pretty bad-looking MRI," Wilson insisted. "Any doctor would agree."

Wilson was completely tightened up, the picture of pleasant denial, and Jensen switched tracks to come in on an undefended road. "James, do you still think Amber's death was Dr. House's fault?"

That startled Wilson completely out of bluff, as Jensen had intended. "_What_? No, of course not. I never really thought it was his fault even at the time. I was just in shock, reacting out of grief. There were a lot of factors there; he didn't kill Amber."

"Then why do you think his current status is your fault?" Jensen countered.

"Why do . . ." Wilson sputtered, too shocked to deny the sin of still feeling guilty. "The situations are nothing alike."

"Really? Tell me how they are different then."

"My direct actions could have changed this."

"As could his then," Jensen noted. "If he hadn't been in that bar, if he hadn't called you, if he hadn't left his cane and had Amber follow him. If he had acted differently at any one of several opportunities, it all could have been avoided. Just as you feel that if you had acted differently at any one of several opportunities, his current status might have been avoided."

Wilson shook his head. "They're nothing alike. I'm a doctor. I _know _what the signs of head injury are, and he had just been through a severe accident."

"He is a doctor as well. He knows the signs of physical illness, which Amber was demonstrating. He should have called a cab or something for himself and insisted she go straight back home."

"But . . . " Wilson trailed off helplessly. "It's not the same thing. You couldn't just insist that Amber do something; she was stubborn. She do the opposite just to spite you."

"Just as he is himself. If you had insisted he have an MRI the moment he entered the hospital Thursday night, do you think he would have immediately agreed and been a cooperative patient?"

"Amber wasn't his fault," Wilson protested. "I don't blame him. It was circumstances coming together."

"As was this," Jensen pointed out. "The sole major difference I see between the two situations is that Amber died, for which your friend blamed himself, of course. He did not die. He's getting better, and he will most likely have little to no lasting physical effects from this."

"He shouldn't blame himself," Wilson insisted. "It wasn't his fault."

"Then how can you blame yourself? If Amber wasn't his fault, he isn't yours. If he is your fault, Amber was his. To take opposite positions on those two quite similar sets of circumstances doesn't make sense. If you're blaming yourself for this, you must logically still blame him for Amber."

Wilson shook his head. "Stop it. You're making me dizzy."

Jensen leaned forward slightly. "At the heart of the matter, the only real difference here is that _he_ was the one who might have been perceived at fault with Amber, while _you _are the one currently. It's a different world when it's you at the center of possible blame instead of someone else, isn't it?"

Wilson sighed. "Okay, I'll admit to being selfish enough to think I'm a different case. But I still should have done a full exam on him."

"You're not selfish, James. You're scared." Wilson started to protest. "You're scared of failing people. You always have been, since your brother. You don't think you have the right to let people down, so you magnify any possible opportunities you have had for failure and make your role larger than it actually was."

Wilson looked away for a moment, and Jensen let the silence lengthen. "Okay. I'll admit it; I'm pathetic. Satisfied?"

Jensen shook his head. "You aren't pathetic. You're just scared. Why do you think other people don't feel that themselves at times? Why do you hold yourself to different standards?"

"Nope, it's House who holds himself to different standards."

"We aren't talking about him at the moment, although he is working hard on his issues, as you are working on yours. But you do both have a tendency to isolate yourselves mentally, although for different reasons. For you, it's because you are afraid of failing. For him, it's because he has believed all his life that he already has."

Wilson picked up one of his presents from patients, fiddling with it. "So how do we even start on such monumental screwed-up-ness?"

Jensen smiled. "Stop telling yourself that you haven't started. You are making a lot of progress yourself this year, and that progress has been visible at times even during this current crisis. Just admit to yourself that you're scared. That is a legitimate feeling. Blame is just the front you use to avoid facing fear. He was badly hurt. You could have lost him. But you didn't. He _is _getting better."

Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, thinking through that. House was getting better. But yes, he could have lost him, and damn right, it terrified him. A knock sounded at the office door, and he opened his eyes, startled, and looked at his watch. "I've got an appointment," he said quickly, and Jensen stood up.

"I'll leave, then. Just remember, James. This was not your fault. And he is getting better."

The psychiatrist left, holding the door open for Wilson's first patient of the day. The oncologist forced his thoughts to the case before him and settled down to listen and be there for his patient.


	43. Chapter 43

Here's 43. The next chapter with House and Jensen is one of my favorite scenes in this entire story. :)

(H/C)

House was still playing the piano mat when Susan and Blythe arrived a bit later. The pure exhilaration of doing _something _without impediments was nearly intoxicating. Cuddy watched him, enjoying the music and once again silently thankful that of all the psychiatrists in the world, House had found Jensen.

"Good morning!" Susan said as she carried Rachel in, Blythe coming along more slowly behind her. "Oh, how cute! It's a piano - sort of."

"Not as good as . . . mine at . . . home, but neat," House replied. Rachel immediately stretched her arms out, torn between wanting him and wanting to explore that fascinating roll-up keyboard on the bed table. House pushed the table down slightly, making his lap available, and Susan put Rachel on his abdomen. The girl looked left to right like her head was on a swivel, then reached quickly toward House, patting his arm once, before immediately turning the other way and bringing both hands down on the keyboard in a cacophony of notes.

"No," House said, and she banged harder. With a sigh, he went for the one known method of getting her to leave the piano alone, which was to start playing it again himself. She immediately settled back, listening to the music. Cuddy smiled.

"What a picture," Blythe noted.

"They'll do that for hours," Cuddy stated. "At home, he'll play with her in his lap. As long as he's playing, she'll leave it alone, but soon as he stops, she's trying it herself and getting annoyed that it sounds different."

"You'll have to give her piano lessons, Greg," Susan said.

He nodded silently, focused fully on what he was doing. "10 months is just a bit young to be starting," Cuddy said, "but believe me, piano lessons are on the menu. For her and for Abby."

"Oh, Abby is just such an adorable little thing," Blythe enthused. "You'll just love her when you see her, Lisa."

"Hopefully this afternoon. I already love her, though." Cuddy frowned slightly, watching House. The strain of reaching around Rachel to the slightly too-far-away piano mat, while in a hospital bed, while also dealing with IVs and the stitches was starting to get to him, the music not quite as smooth as it had been earlier. "Don't push it too far, Greg."

He gave a sigh and stopped, and Rachel immediately reached out again to bang the keyboard. "No," he repeated, giving the wheeled table a firm push that coasted it out of reach.

"No!" she protested, trying to dive after it, then turning around to smack him, unfortunately picking the bandaged wrist to do it. He flinched.

"Rachel," Cuddy admonished, "take it easy. Here, you want to come see Mama?"

"No!" Rachel objected, wrapping both arms around House's chest, settling down against him. "Dada."

"She is a daddy's girl," Blythe said.

"Worse than usual," House said, his analytical look in his eyes.

"You scared her," Cuddy supplied. "She was nearly hysterical when you collapsed. I was, too." She shuddered, remembering him crumpling to the floor in front of them.

"She's been asking for you the whole week," Susan stated. "Any time anybody went to see her, that was her first question. You scared all of us, Greg."

"Sorry," he replied.

Cuddy flinched and immediately changed the subject. "How is Rachel getting along?"

"Oh, she's just wonderful," Blythe replied. "No problem at all, but we can tell she misses you."

"Does she seem okay physically?" Cuddy studied her daughter, who was still contentedly snuggled up against House's chest for the moment. "She doesn't act like she's hurting."

"The cast doesn't seem to bother her at all," Susan said, "and her cracked ribs don't, either, although we're being careful, and they're still wrapped up. We've been using the Children's Tylenol, but she hasn't needed the stronger stuff they gave us."

"She's so young," Blythe put in. "Bones heal quickly that young. Why, I remember all the times that Greg . . ." She abruptly caught herself and trailed off with a quick, guilty glance at Susan. Susan hadn't noticed, though, still watching House and Rachel. "When do you two think you'll be home?" Blythe asked, trying to change the subject.

"They haven't said anything yet," Cuddy replied, once again feeling irritation with Blythe surge up. The woman was well intentioned, but she could be so totally _clueless_ at times. How Blythe had produced such a perceptive genius of a son was beyond Cuddy. "Remember, when we do get home, it's time for you two to head back to your own lives. We need to get back to normal as quickly as we can."

"I suppose," Blythe said, still sounding a bit dubious.

Cuddy's surgeon swept in at a brisk rounds pace at that moment. "Good morning. How are you feeling today?"

"Better all the time," Cuddy replied.

"Ready to try getting up?"

"More than ready," Cuddy declared, pushing the blanket back.

Susan immediately protested, beating Blythe to the objection by a short head. "Now be careful, Lisa. Take it easy and don't push it."

No, these two definitely needed out of the way once they were home, Cuddy decided. Not just for her and House, but for their own safety. She more and more thought that a convalescence under the supervision of the mothers would result in murder. Teeth gritted, she slowly slid down to her feet. The surgeon was at her elbow, ready to help but standing back enough to let her find her limitations.

"Okay?" House asked.

She took a step, leaning on the IV pole. She still felt shockingly weak, and every move tugged slightly on the stitches, setting off a hundred fire ants crawling across her abdomen, but she didn't feel like she was about to fall. "It's okay. It just hurts."

"Now that pain is telling you something," Blythe emphasized. "Be careful. You're doing too much, Lisa."

The surgeon met Cuddy's eyes with such an expressive silent assessment that she had to choke back a laugh and then flinched instead. Reminder to self, try not to laugh while standing up for a while. She took another step, still leaning a good bit on the IV, edging her way forward through the physical anthill. It was only pain. She could deal with this. She finished a slow lap of her half of the room and came back to the bed, indeed feeling like a 90-year-old but also like one who was being let out of jail. "You can start walking for _short _distances," the surgeon said, "but do be careful. Build up slowly."

"I was hoping to go see the baby this afternoon - in a wheelchair, of course," Cuddy clarified.

"I don't see any problem with that."

"We'll go along and make sure she doesn't do too much," Blythe immediately offered.

House spoke up. "No. Let . . . her do it alone."

"Rachel can't go to NICU anyway, and she needs to go back home, not hang around the hospital," Cuddy pointed out. She was starting to consider the possibilities of the IV pole as a weapon.

"Okay. Get back into bed now," the surgeon said, wanting to see her do it, wanting to make sure she could safely. That hurt worse than anything so far, the changing stresses and positions. Who ever knew you used the abdominal muscles for so much? Cuddy's teeth were gritted in pain and not just annoyance by the time she made it, but she did make it. "Very good," the surgeon replied. His eyes flicked quickly to the mothers, then back to Cuddy. "Don't you think you need to rest now?" he suggested, offering the out. "Especially if you want to go see the baby this afternoon."

"Yes," she replied, grateful to him. "I wouldn't mind another pain pill and taking a nap before lunch."

The mothers took the heavy hint, and Susan stepped forward to retrieve Rachel, a tricky task since the child seemed to have turned to Velcro. "NO!" she shouted.

House flinched at the noise. "See you later. It's okay."

Rachel wasn't convinced. She started tuning up for full volume. House's vitals were kicking up, although he was still trying to fight through the words to reassure her. "Take her home," Cuddy ordered. "She can come back tonight, but she has to stay quiet."

Blythe gave House a worried look. "Okay. Get some rest yourself, Greg. We'll come back maybe just after dinnertime."

Susan stepped away with the crying girl in her arms. "It's okay, Rachel. We'll be back later. Shhh. Goodbye, Lisa, Greg." They left the room, the volume of the cries slowly turning down. House closed his eyes.

"Are you okay, Greg?" Cuddy asked, looking from his face to the monitor screen.

He nodded, eyes still closed. "Get used to . . . it. Our . . . daughters."

"You don't just have to get used to it. You're still fresh off a brain injury; the headache will get better. I'm sure not planning to get used to feeling like I've had a hit-and-run with a sewing machine." He grinned slightly at that. Cuddy turned back to the surgeon. "When you tell them at the desk to bring me a pain pill, ask for something for him, too. He's got standing orders for morphine still, although they're starting to wean it down."

"I will," the surgeon replied. "In fact, I'll just call for a nurse now. I want to look at the incisions before I leave." He hit the button, then started unfastening the tape on the wide dressing over her abdomen. By the time he had finished inspecting her sutures and then applying another dressing, the nurse had come in with a pill for Cuddy and a shot for House.

Finally, they were alone again. Cuddy looked over at her husband. His eyes were still closed, but the lines on his face had relaxed a bit. "Greg?"

"Hmm?" He sounded drowsy, the drug pulling him down.

"Which one of them do you think we'd wind up killing first?"

He smiled. "Tough . . . choice. Sleep on it." His voice trailed off.

Deciding he had a good idea, she settled back and drifted off into a nap herself, dreaming of Abby.

(H/C)

Just after lunch, a wheelchair rolled into the room, Wilson pushing it. "I'll roll you down," he offered, "and then I'll leave you alone for a while. But you can page me when you want a lift back."

"Thank you, Wilson." Cuddy was so full of anticipation that she barely noticed the pain this time as she gingerly stood and edged her way into the chair. "You okay for a while, Greg?"

"Fine," House replied. Wilson exchanged the empty lunch tray on the rolling table for the piano mat and pushed it back into position for him, also double checking that the call button was easily within reach.

"Just hit the button if you need anything."

"Tell her hi from . . .me," he requested, and Cuddy smiled.

"I will. Back in a little while." She heard House starting to play again as Wilson rolled her out of the room. Abby. Her daughter. Finally, she was going to see her daughter. "Can't you push this thing any faster?" she asked, and Wilson chuckled and obliged.

Jensen, leaning unnoticed by all of them against the far wall beyond the nurse's station, watched Wilson and Cuddy enter the elevators and then unpeeled himself from the wall and headed for the room. He tapped lightly on the open glass door, and House looked up. "Mind if I keep you company for a while?" the psychiatrist asked, and House shook his head, still playing.

Jensen entered the room and carefully shut the glass door behind him.


	44. Chapter 44

One of my favorite scenes in the story, right up there with the wedding. I am still trying for a chapter a day, but if I don't make that, don't pester me about it. Lots of other things are going on, and those things are high risk for abrupt changes beyond my control. So you might get a chapter a day; you might get a hiatus here and there. Deal with it. :) Go back and reread if there's a day off; this one is filled with all sorts of fun things you'll notice second time through, such as how Jensen interrogated Cuddy as to schedule in the last day and suggested the afternoon without her even noticing.

This chapter is lovingly dedicated to Mom, my lifelong best friend, who always supported my creativity and who is the root and essence of Jensen. How I miss talking to her. Those of you into poetry, if you've never read a great poem titled, "Rock Me to Sleep," look it up on the internet - very easy to find; it's justly famous - and read it. That's the story of the last few years.

(H/C)

Jensen moved over to the visitor's chair and sat down. "How is the keyboard working out?" he asked.

"Great," House replied, fingers still moving smoothly. "Nice to do . . . something right."

Jensen glanced at the monitors, establishing a baseline, then back at House. House still looked far from healthy, the bandage around his head only emphasizing his paleness, but his eyes were bright and focused. For the moment, although he wasn't well, the worst of the pain and weakness were at bay. He seemed much more relaxed this afternoon; the music today had helped him. Jensen steeled himself mentally for what he fully expected to be the most challenging session he had ever conducted in his professional career.

"What?" House asked, eyes on the psychiatrist now, although his fingers still moved easily over the piano mat.

Jensen dove in. He wasn't sure how much time they had, and he definitely would need all of it. Hopefully Cuddy would be happily mesmerized by Abby for a good while. "Dr. House, would you like to tell me about your experiences in hell?" His eyes shifted to the monitor screen immediately, and he saw the numbers take the expected jump.

House slammed both hands down in annoyance on the keyboard, the harsh chord fracturing the music. "I _can't_," he snapped. "I can't do . . . this. Can't talk about . . that while fighting . . . everything . . . It's too much."

"I agree," Jensen replied, and the pure calmness of his unequivocal statement was so unexpected that it temporarily halted anger. "You can't share something that emotionally charged while fighting the words themselves. I understand that, and I do agree. That's too much, as you said."

House for once looked confused, a rare expression for him. "Then why ask?"

"I only asked if you wanted to. Not if you could."

House shook his head. This was starting to remind him of Through the Looking Glass, a book he had spent an entire summer with in his young childhood trying to get it to make sense, because books at least should make sense, even if life did not.

Jensen leaned forward slightly. "Please, go with me on this, just for a minute. You'll see. Do you _want _to tell me about it?"

With anybody but Jensen, he would have put down the request to a cruel taunt, mocking his disabilities, but he had spent months working with Jensen by now. The man was many things, but he was not cruel. "Yes," he said finally, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness that reminded him in the next second of Wilson.

Jensen's eyes were absolutely focused now, intent, burning with their own version of genius. "What if we could find a way? You wouldn't be the one fishing for words; I would. I'll be the one fumbling for the right thing, fighting to reach the answers. And at any point at all that you want to stop, you can. I realize you aren't close to physically well yet, and we must be careful. But you need to process this. I can tell it's bothering you. If we could manage it, without you fighting the words, are you willing to try?"

House stared at him, feeling oddly like he was on the wrong side of an epiphany, like he was the one uncomprehending while another got the flash of lightning and headed off to explain everything. "Yes," he said finally.

Jensen glanced at the monitors. The figures were still up from when he'd come up, but House's curiosity was starting to battle his frustration. Jensen was counting on curiosity as one of his allies in the upcoming discussion. He started. "I want you to try to describe hell in music."

House looked from Jensen to the piano mat, then back. "That's why . . ."

"That is not the only reason I gave it to you. Even if this doesn't work, giving you something positive, some distraction is worth every cent. But yes, I was hoping we could use it." House was starting to actually consider this as a plan, tilting his head slightly. "You play it," Jensen encouraged, "and I'll be the one to guess. I'll try to work it out; I'll be the one running the maze. You just have to tell me if I've got it or not. Yes or no. Those words don't hide from you. You don't have to chase anything else, not on this subject."

House reached out after a moment, his hands once again resting on the keyboard but this time simply resting there as if they were thinking along with his mind. "Earlier," he said after a pause. "It starts earlier."

"Before hell? Before your collapse?"

"Yes."

"But after you called me?"

"Yes."

"Okay. When you called me, you were convinced, thankfully incorrectly, that you were having a psychotic break. To that point, I think I know most of the relevant details from our conversations over those two days. Do I?" House nodded. "All right, in the short time between then and your collapse, you worked out the truth. How did you work it out? Physical symptoms?" House shook his head, then hesitated, tilting it slightly. "Physical symptoms that didn't seem physical at first?" Jensen guessed.

House nodded, and then his hands sprang suddenly to life, nearly attacking the black and white keys. A taut, complex melody, minor key, chasing itself around in fugue. It wouldn't have been out of place in any horror film. It practically dropped body temperature to listen to it. "Your father?" Jensen suggested. House nodded, the theme expanding now, the melody somehow coming closer and getting darker at the same time. "You saw your father? A hallucination?"

"Yes," House affirmed. His fingers themselves seemed agitated, chasing each other on the keyboard, but somehow, making it something he had control of, something he simply could stop at will, helped. Why had he never thought of putting his father to music? The music laughed, a very good, chilling reminder of John's laugh, and then suddenly it shifted to major key, a simple, childlike melody. House smiled slightly to himself. Modulating out of John. He did it again just for the pure control of it.

Jensen's mind was going at full gallop now. "He was mocking you? And then something to do with Rachel? James said you were holding Rachel when he left."

House nodded. "Yes."

"Did he try to hurt Rachel in the hallucination?"

"Yes." The melody was still childlike, but it abruptly rippled up and down, its own version of laughter but as far removed from John's as the sun is from a flashlight.

"You imagined that she was playing with him?" House shook his head. "She was playing with you?"

"Yes."

"She wasn't even reacting to him, was she? And that's how you knew it wasn't real?"

"Yes." The childlike laughter shifted into a complex, nearly mathematical progression, reminiscent of Bach in the absolutely tight organization. Now and then for a few measures, it would shift back into minor, to John's laughter, then recapture the spirit and organization of Bach. House smiled. Take that, you bastard, he thought, shifting keys and themes again, in and out. He controlled it. John only filled the music to the exact extent that House allowed.

"You started working it out, putting together the differential," Jensen guessed, "and your father was trying to distract you and convince you it was just your mind falling apart."

House nodded. "Yes." He shifted back and forth, modulating major to minor and back again a few more times. "This is _fun._"

Not fun as much as cathartic, Jensen thought. House was loving the control of it. The psychiatrist glanced over at the monitors. House was definitely not relaxed anymore, but nothing was to dangerous levels. "So you put together the symptoms. Dr. Wilson said you sent him a message that you were hurt, but you had already collapsed when he got there. Dr. Cuddy said you gave her Rachel. So at that point you realized that you were about to have a seizure?"

"Yes. Couldn't hurt . . . her."

"And you didn't," Jensen emphasized. "You kept her safe. Okay, was there anything else you think matters that you noticed before your collapse?"

"No," House replied, but it didn't carry much conviction.

"What are you thinking of there? No, don't answer. Let me be the one to chase it. Something else about your father?"

"Yes."

"Something else he did?" House shook his head. "Something about how he looked?"

"Yes."

"Did he still have the wound you gave him when you clipped off a piece of his ear?" House looked over at Jensen, startled. "That actually was one of the easier reaches so far. Was he wearing his uniform?" House nodded. "With the decorations ripped off?"

"Yes."

"So even in your hallucination, he wasn't quite like he had been in childhood. He was already marked from a battle." Jensen leaned forward a bit. "That's quite good, actually. Even under brain injury and extreme stress, your subconscious mind acknowledged that you have been fighting him. It wasn't just one-sided any longer." House considered that, head tilted slightly. "Think about that. Even before hell, you subconsciously knew that he wasn't as powerful or invincible as he once had been. You are getting better, Dr. House. You are overcoming this. And even on the edge of physical collapse, you know it." House smiled after a moment, picking back up the music, modulating back into and out of John. His father at his fingertips. Cool.

"Okay, are you ready for hell?" Jensen asked.

House swallowed once and then nodded. The music shifted again, almost wandering, hints of a melody here and there but nothing that the listener could hold onto, always hanging just out of reach. "Fog," Jensen said, remembering that as one of the three terms House had used after awakening in the only very brief description of hell they had gotten.

"Yes." The music continued to wander, always searching for a melody, never getting it.

"You said the word-finding was worse in hell. You couldn't remember anybody?" House shook his head, getting irritated again thinking of it. "No, you could remember the existence of other people but not details about them. Is that it?"

"Yes."

"You just knew there _were_ people for you somewhere?"

"Yes."

Jensen smiled. "Really, this is fascinating. It's amazing how much your subconscious framework has changed since starting therapy. You now, even without details and names, have no doubt at all that you aren't alone. Okay, so you were wandering through fog, looking for the people that you knew should be there. What next?" The music rippled, questioning now, still searching. "You called out to ask if anybody was there?"

"Yes," House replied, and then he modulated abruptly from the wandering fog music back into John's theme. In the next second, he slammed his hands again down on the keyboard, annoyed.

"Easy," Jensen said, almost drawing out the word to be onomatopoetic. "Take a break for a minute." He reached over to the bedside table, picking up the cup of water and handing it to House. House gulped down several swallows through the straw before handing it back. "The fact that your father was the first person you encountered in hell does not negate the progress we were just talking about. You were hallucinating him at the moment you collapsed, and your memories had all been stirred up for the previous two days, with a physical cause, but the effect was still there. That was the thing most immediately on your mind lately; it would naturally be one of the most vivid parts of any experiences you had while in a coma. In fact, Dr. Cuddy guessed that."

House looked back over, startled. Jensen nodded. "She said you told her about seeing Amber after the bus accident, and she worried herself that you might be trapped with John in your mind. I had to agree with her, once I thought about it. It would be the closest choice for your mind to latch onto, but seeing him in hell does not mean that you have failed in all the work you've been doing the last several months. In fact, I'll bet even in hell, he still was wounded in the ear and had his decorations missing. Is that right?"

House nodded. "Yes."

"You still knew you were fighting him. You knew he was weaker than before. The progress was still there, even if he was the first person who came to you." Jensen looked at the monitors. House was definitely on edge now, but nothing to dangerous levels. "Do you want to go on?"

House reached out for the cup again, which Jensen handed back to him, and he took another few swallows of water. "Yes," he said, giving it back. He reached out to the keys, picking up the John theme again, minor key, closer and closer until a chord almost physically jumped out of the music to seize the listener.

"He was beating you," Jensen suggested. House nodded. His heart rate had kicked up a little more. "I doubt you were totally helpless like in your childhood, though. Were you resisting him? Intellectually or physically, it doesn't matter." House looked surprised at that. "Resistance is resistance. Intellectual is actually greater than physical. Were you defying him on anything?"

"Yes." The music went back to the wandering, searching theme briefly.

"He was trying to tell you you were alone?"

"Yes."

Jensen smiled. "This is really quite impressive. You didn't believe it, did you, even without names or other people as proof?"

"No."

"So your old fears were insisting you were alone, but you knew they were wrong. Did you ever in hell give up that belief?"

"No." The music shifted again, John's minor theme but slower, colder, nearly frozen.

"Ice," Jensen guessed, another of the three descriptive terms House had managed after awakening. Fog, ice, and stairs, he had said.

"Yes," House replied, shivering slightly.

Jensen thought of explaining Wilson's stunt with the ice, but that would violate confidentiality in the other direction, sharing specifics on something Wilson had shared with him in his role as psychiatrist. He settled for a middle road. "They had to use ice on you when your fever spiked from the wrist infection. Probably, on some distant level, you were aware of what was happening to your body, and that triggered that specific memory."

House tilted his head. "Did I do . . . anything?"

"No. You had no visible reaction at all to it. You were quite far away from us, apparently, but I don't think you were totally disconnected. Anyway, go on. What happened next?"

Stairs, obviously. Endless runs down, notes chasing each other through the descent. "Stairs."

"Yes." House swallowed. His vitals were kicking up again. "Lots."

"Take it easy. Your pulse is getting a little high. Do you want to take a break?"

"No," House said emphatically. This odd musical conversation was helping somehow. He wanted to finish it. "How long do . . . we have?"

"I don't know. I'm hoping Dr. Cuddy will get lost watching Abby. I deliberately planted the seed with her the other day of visiting Abby right after lunch with a larger slot of time for it, but of course I didn't say what I was planning to do. I don't think she'd approve, not yet anyway. I wish myself you were in better shape physically, but I think you need this. Is it helping at all?"

"Yes." House picked the music up again. Staircases over staircases, endless runs. Then abruptly, in the middle of them, came the opening notes of Cuddy's Serenade.

"Dr. Cuddy appeared to you in hell?"

"No." House shook his head. "Not . . . all."

"Let me be the one to chase it," Jensen reminded him. "So she herself wasn't there, at least not all of her. She didn't suddenly appear and tackle your father, for instance."

House grinned, liking that image. He bet she would have, given the opportunity. "No."

"Did you only see part of her?"

"Yes."

"It couldn't have been the face. That's the part most associated with identity; you couldn't have seen her face in hell without knowing full details of who she was, I think. Did you see her back?"

"No."

"Her hands?"

"Yes," House replied, but his tone qualified it.

"One hand?"

"Yes."

"Did she take your hand?"

"No."

"Did she hand you something?"

"Yes."

"A weapon of some sort?"

House hesitated, then answered, "Yes." His eyes had drifted to his leg.

"Your cane?"

"Yes."

"Interesting. Not only a potential weapon, but more to the point, it's quite literally a support. So to that point in hell, you didn't have your cane?"

"No."

"Did you attack your father once her hand gave it to you?"

"Yes." House grinned, remembering the surge of anger that had nearly propelled him forward.

"It was Monday night that Dr. Cuddy was moved into this room. We'd kept you separate at first due to her own recovering infection and your open head wound."

House couldn't resist a question of his own there. "How?"

"We had to sedate her. You're right; she wasn't cooperative at all. In fact, they had to sedate her right after you collapsed. As soon as someone took Rachel, she was trying to get on the floor to help you." House shook his head, imagining the pain she would have been in then from her stitches. She had still been so weak Saturday from the fever, too. But she hadn't noticed her own state in worrying about him.

Jensen continued. "From the moment we brought her in here Monday night, she was holding your right hand constantly, trying to wake you up. I think on some level, that reached you. You realized she was closer now. Did you ever see her again in hell after she handed you your cane?"

"No."

"So you tackled your father. What happened then?"

More stairs, both hands together now, running them in octaves rather than a long, right-to-left hand-off descent. "You fell down the stairs together." The music transitioned into basically a tonal cat fight, circling, wrestling, first one ahead, then the other. "And you were fighting with him."

"Yes." The theme of the right hand finally triumphed over the left, ending with a dramatic chord, a blow of sound.

"You killed him."

"Yes." There was uncertainty in the reply, though.

"You aren't sure? Did you check the body?"

"No."

"Did the body disappear before you could look at it closely?"

"Yes."

"But you won the battle, right?"

"Yes." He shifted back to the wandering through the fog theme, the notes gradually slowing down.

"So you were wandering again, looking for a way out, but it was getting harder. Were you hurting more?"

"Yes."

"Probably the nearer you got to consciousness, the more you would be aware of your actual injuries. Did you still have the cane?"

"Yes."

"So the support was still there. But the names and the people still eluded you?"

"Yes." House gritted his teeth in frustration.

"Take it easy. You're already getting better on that, and you said yourself it was a lot worse in hell. Everything from that point is improving."

"Needs to be faster," House objected.

Jensen grinned. "How many of the patients in this hospital do you think would share that sentiment? Probably 100%, I'd imagine. And keep in mind, this window of recovery time for you and Dr. Cuddy is most likely a blessing in disguise. You could not deal with Abby with her special needs right now. _Neither one _of you could. By the time she's ready to come home, you'll be better able to help her."

House sighed and nodded reluctantly. He still wanted recovery to be faster. The wandering theme focused down, centralizing, finding a calm, even melody.

"Your grandmother," Jensen said. "Abigail."

"Yes."

"You said before that you did not speak with her. Did you ever see her face?"

"Yes."

"So she was facing you, then probably turned around to lead you out. Right?"

"Yes."

"Did you know her identity then?"

"Yes."

"I figured you had to, since you saw her face. So she did not speak but just led you out of hell. This is the grandmother you had some connection to, correct? The one you said once was the first person in your childhood to demonstrate authority without anger?"

"Yes."

"And Dr. Cuddy has her ring."

"Yes."

"That's probably where you picked the idea of her up from. Dr. Cuddy's rings, of course, are in her personal effects right now, as is yours, but she was holding your right hand with her ring hand from Monday night on. Subconsciously, the connection was there. What happened then?" The music trailed off into silence. "You woke up at that point?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Cuddy said she was asleep when you woke up the first time. Did you know her immediately when you saw her?"

"Yes," but the frustration was underlying his voice.

"You knew her but still not the name. Is that it?"

"Yes."

"Wednesday morning, you could get to the names, although it took you a while. That was apparently an improvement over Tuesday night, and definitely an improvement over hell. You are getting better, Dr. House. You can overcome this." House's eyes drifted down to his legs. "You can overcome this," Jensen repeated, "no matter what you have to deal with. You are strong enough, and you also are not alone, as your subconscious kept reminding you. Also, not that this is a medical opinion, understand, but I assume you were walking when you were following your grandmother?"

House's head tilted slightly. He hadn't thought of that one. "Yes. Hurt."

"Walking with pain. We've already established that you became more aware of your actual injuries the closer you got to consciousness. Both legs hurt at that point, correct?"

"Yes."

"But they did work. To the very end of walking out, right up to the edge of consciousness, did they still work?"

"Yes." House considered that, his mind racing. "You think . . ."

"I'm afraid to push that point too far myself, but I believe that clearly, _you _think that they still work. At least your subconscious does. You mentioned once that you don't limp in your dreams, but in a hallucination where you were having difficulties that corresponded directly to your actual injuries, I think we can at least tentatively draw the parallel. You knew before your collapse that you had a brain injury, but subconsciously, you did not extend that into general balance or gait problems, just the pain of the isolated insults to the legs."

House smiled. That point hadn't even occurred to him. Of course, his mind could be deceiving itself, but it was at least a valid theory, a bit of evidence on the side of ultimate recovery. He had definitely been aware that his balance itself was off at the end on Saturday night, but Jensen was right, in hell, even at the end with his legs and head hurting so much, there had been no brain-originated problems with ambulation.

"And you have no problems with your hands, correct?"

"Right."

"I really think that you most likely are going to recover, speech and otherwise. And even if there are some residual problems, I _know _that you are strong enough to deal with them. You will be there for your family, and you will not simply be a burden to them."

A wave of weakness suddenly swept over House, washing him backwards slightly into the pillows. "Are you okay?" Jensen asked instantly.

"Yes. Tired."

Jensen looked at the monitors. The numbers weren't too bad, but they had definitely worsened during this conversation, even with Jensen trying his best to take the frustration of searching off of House. "I've been pushing you, and we've had quite a session. I think it was a valuable one, though."

House nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Just rest now. You still have a lot of healing physically to do. Do you need any more pain medicine?"

House considered. The gnawing aches in his head and his legs were definitely there, but he could deal with this for the moment. He'd hate to be out of it when Cuddy returned full of stories about Abby. She'd need to talk then, would want to share with him. "No."

"You could just take a nap while waiting for her," Jensen suggested.

"She won't . . ."

"I will. I'll stay here. I'll wake you up when she gets back."

House let his eyes fall shut. "Okay." He still felt so weak, but for the first time, he was thinking about the physical act of walking out of hell after Oma. Jensen was right. There had not been any general issues. Maybe his subconscious was trying to tell him something. Another thought occurred to him suddenly, and he half smiled.

"What?" Jensen asked.

"It's . . . Friday."

"Friday afternoon." Jensen grinned himself. "So we've kept our usual schedule after all. A few hours early, but who's counting?"

House settled back, letting himself drift, coasting like a boat on the underlying pain. He'd get something more in a little while, but he wanted to hear Cuddy first, to share the excitement of their daughter. Abby.

Jensen sat beside the bed watching the lines on House's face smooth out, watching the vitals drop and become steady. When he was sure House was asleep, he let go of the tension himself, letting out a deep breath, sinking back into the chair. He felt like he'd run a marathon. Reaching out for the pitcher on the nightstand, he poured himself a cup full of House's water and drained it without a pause. Replacing the pitcher, he set his mental proximity alarm to wake up the minute somebody returned to the room, and he closed his eyes and let himself relax. The piano mat was silent for the moment on the bed table. Psychiatrist and patient both slept.


	45. Chapter 45

Cuddy was spellbound.

Wilson had parked the wheelchair right by the viewing window, and Abby occupied the second incubator over, so Cuddy could see her fairly well. She was still painfully aware of the distance and the glass between, but she knew that even inside, there was no way she could have pretended Abby was a usual baby at this point and just hugged and snuggled her tightly like she wanted to. Too much equipment, too many limitations. Abby still had a long road ahead, and it was obvious.

But just to see her! It didn't matter that the baby was far too small and did not yet even with imagination resemble either of her parents. Cuddy thought she was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Her own child, after years of battling her body. Not only hers, but hers in partnership with House. Amazing. She had thought on the way down of all the future (hopefully) ahead of them, but right now, she was oddly content to be lost in the imperfect present, to be watching each heartbeat on the screen, seeing each finger twitch. The present alone was a miracle.

Abby lay mostly still, occasionally stretching out a limb or moving slightly. House's Ipod was still on top of the incubator, although it undoubtedly had been through several chargings by now. The monitor screen beside the baby announced that she had a fever at the moment, although a nurse had come out to update Cuddy and said that the new antibiotics were already helping. Her pulse oximetry made one sudden and frightening dive while Cuddy was there, but the nurse had said that was usual, too. The staff was calmly, efficiently there, adjusting the respirator settings, and Abby recovered fairly quickly.

"Cuddy?" Wilson's voice at her elbow startled her. "Sorry, but it's been two hours."

"It has not. Can't have been," she protested.

"Yes, it has. You probably ought to be heading back up to bed. House is going to send down a posse; you don't want to worry him."

She sighed. "Isn't she gorgeous?"

Wilson's dopey grin, as House called it, widened. "She is. She could win any premie beauty pageant, hands down."

"Can we swing by the gift shop real quick? I want to get her a bear."

"She's still developing her sense of touch, Cuddy. I'm not sure how much . . . "

Cuddy's jaw tightened, and her blue-gray eyes turned to steel. "Wilson, either you push me, or I'm rolling myself."

Wilson stepped back and spread his hands in surrender. "Well, I guess most people would also say she's too young for an Ipod, but she's sure enjoying that. Okay, come on." He could tell that Cuddy was getting pretty tired herself, although he didn't think she was aware of it yet. But clearly, she needed to do _something_ for their daughter, even if something that couldn't be fully appreciated yet. This was more for Cuddy than it was for Abby.

Once in the gift shop, they surveyed the collection of bears. All of these were stock teddy bears, of course, nothing like the individuality of the bear House had given Rachel, but this was the supply she had to work with for now. Promising Abby better toys in the future, Cuddy picked out a smallish plush bear. It was only when she was wheeled up to the register that she realized that she didn't have her purse with her. It had been locked up with her things since the night of the accident. "Wilson, I hate to ask it, but . . ."

The oncologist was already pulling out his wallet. "Never mind. Believe me, I'm used to it." He paid for the bear, and then they returned to NICU. The bear would have to be sterilized, of course, but the nurse promised to put it in with Abby as soon as she could. Cuddy was forced to accept that, promising herself a return trip tomorrow to see Abby with her gift and hopefully get a picture for House. House. She suddenly started to get worried about him again, realizing the length of her absence. She hoped he was okay alone up there and that he hadn't been too stubborn to use the button if he needed anything. She made no protest this time when Wilson pushed her back to the elevators to return to the ICU.

(H/C)

The door to the room opened, and Jensen snapped awake instantly. He looked around, but this was only a nurse, not Cuddy returning. She gave him a smile as she entered the room. It was the mid-afternoon changing of the shifts. Everyone associated with House's or Cuddy's case was very familiar with Jensen by this point, of course. The public cover story remained the one Wilson had told Cameron, that Jensen was his psychiatrist, and nobody could question that Wilson had needed the support this last week, or that Jensen had been helping him. The hospital grapevine had been just about as worried about Wilson as it was about Cuddy and House.

The nurse walked softly over to the bed, checking on House. "How long has he been asleep?" she whispered.

Jensen checked his watch. "About an hour." He was surprised Cuddy had been gone this long. Wilson was surely rounding her up by now. She wasn't yet well herself.

"Good. That's still the best thing for him." She checked the lines, changed the IV bag, and made a few notations on the chart. House never stirred. Even in sleep he looked tired. Jensen hoped that today hadn't been too much for him, but he thought House needed to start healing mentally as well as physically from his ordeal. The nurse eyed the piano mat. "That's a cute little thing. Can he play it all right?"

"Yes. He wasn't having any problems with music."

"Good. That ought to help him." She studied the diagnostician. "People are still talking about how he played the piano at the wedding." Jensen had no doubt they were. "Not that we tell him, of course." Jensen grinned at the thought.

Right at that point, Cuddy rolled back into the room, pushed by Wilson. Jensen immediately reached over and shook House by the shoulder. It took a few seconds to get a response, and he repeated the action.

"Don't . . ." Cuddy started to protest, but House was already opening his eyes. They were indeed looking more like usual all the time, though still weak. He looked from the nurse to Jensen to Cuddy and Wilson.

"Hi," he said, directed at Cuddy.

Cuddy was still glaring at Jensen. "You didn't have to wake him up."

"He asked me to. He didn't want to miss sharing your daughter with you." Jensen stood up from the chair, deciding it was high time to get out of there. He didn't think House would share their session with Cuddy, not yet anyway, but he didn't want any specific questions on how long he had been there or what he had been doing. He was sure that Cuddy and most likely Wilson would disagree with his decision at this point, purely medically. "I'll leave you two to it. I'll be back tomorrow to see you, though."

"Thanks," House said, and Jensen turned his back to the others to meet his eyes.

"You're welcome." The psychiatrist circled Cuddy and Wilson and left the room.

Wilson rolled Cuddy up to her bed and set the wheelchair brakes, and she steeled herself for the effort of getting up. Changing positions hurt her abdomen more than being in any one position. She was also starting to realize, away from the distraction of Abby, just how long she had been sitting in that chair. She pushed herself up to her feet and pivoted to sit down on the bed, trying to do it without showing anything, but House wasn't the only one who heard her sharp intake of breath.

"You okay?"

"Fine, just sore. To repeat from this morning, I am _not _going to get used to this. I refuse."

He grinned. "Not in one . . . day."

"Oh, don't worry. I know recovery is going to take longer than that. A week at least."

Wilson rolled his eyes and moved the wheelchair away from the bed. With it safely parked out of the way, he returned to study his two friends. Cuddy had had a long afternoon and looked it, but the light was still in her eyes. House, surprisingly, looked far more tired than when they left, especially as he had merely been in bed. "Are you okay?" Wilson asked him. Not that he had to bother asking; he could have provided House's answer himself.

"Fine."

Cuddy turned to study him and frowned slightly. "You look awfully tired, Greg."

"I'm okay."

"What have you been doing while we were gone? You didn't try something stupid like getting up again, did you?"

He shook his head. "Just . . . playing." He reached for the piano mat again and picked up the opening theme of the second movement of Beethoven's Pathetique piano sonata, pure lyrical serenity, but his hands themselves seemed tired.

"Don't wear yourself out with Jensen's gift, Greg. We have plenty of time."

The nurse had been checking him over all this time, noting down the change of shift observations. She flipped back to the meds page. "How are you feeling, Dr. House?"

He resolved the tonic on the music and let it drift into silence. "Fine."

The nurse gave a mental sigh. "How bad is the pain right now? Give me a number."

House had to chase the word down first. "4," he said finally, and three skeptical sets of eyes met his.

"Uh huh," Wilson said.

"You're due for another dose of pain meds. The fact that we're weaning it down doesn't mean you need to be going without it."

"Not now," House objected, his eyes flickering over to Cuddy.

Cuddy sighed. "Wilson, would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?" Wilson would mind, actually, as this was getting interesting, and he wanted to firmly cast his vote in the debate. However, he reluctantly accepted his dismissal, walking out the door. Cuddy's eagle eye next landed on the nurse. "Go get him some morphine. Get me another pill, too. We'll take a nap until time to eat." The nurse turned and left, and Cuddy turned to House.

He was already objecting, the words no less emphatic for being in slow motion. "No. . . we need to talk about . . . Abby . . . I want to hear. . .you."

"Greg, we will talk about Abby. I'd love to, and she is absolutely gorgeous. I want to talk about her, but you look worn out right now, and I'm pretty tired myself now that the adrenaline is wearing off. You shouldn't have been playing that little keyboard so much and getting tired, and you shouldn't have let your pain meds wear off."

He shook his head. "We need to . . . I will be . . . there."

"Greg, honestly, I feel like I need a rest myself right now. You are there for me. Don't worry about it." She reached out to capture his hand again. "We'll both sleep a little, and then we'll talk about her."

"No," he protested. His heart rate was rising again. "Later on . . . Mom and your . . . mother will be here."

Cuddy put on a conspiratorial tone. "Oh, I agree. We need to talk about Abby ourselves first, not with them. So why don't we just play possum later after dinner when they come by? I can leave a message with the nurse that we had a busy afternoon and went to bed early, so come back tomorrow morning. They'll probably stick their heads in to check, but we can fool them. Then, once everybody's gone and it's quiet, we'll talk about Abby, just the two of us."

He considered that, then slowly nodded. "Okay. But . . . you sleep too . . . Lisa." It was one of the few times he had pushed on for her name since he had woken up; names above all eluded him. She smiled.

"I will. I mean it; I'm pretty worn out myself. You must have been wondering what had happened to me. I'm glad Jensen came by to keep you company. Seriously, though, don't put all the energy into that new toy of yours that you should be spending healing. You look exhausted, Greg."

"I'm okay," he reassured her.

The nurse re-entered at that point with a pill for Cuddy and a booster on morphine for House. "Cheers," Cuddy said, gulping down the pill - Vicodin of all things.

He relaxed, not fighting it anymore. "Cheers." The nurse injected the syringe into his IV port and then left.

Cuddy picked up his hand again, squeezing it. "We'll have a long talk later tonight. Let's both rest now. But she is beautiful, Greg."

He smiled, eyes closed. "Yes. . . Abigail . . . Lisa." He drifted off, and Cuddy wasn't far behind him.


	46. Chapter 46

Cuddy lay in the hospital bed, eyes closed, ears wide open. She forced her face to be relaxed and her breathing even. Susan's footsteps were familiar, taking Cuddy back to the times in childhood when she would pretend to be asleep as her mother checked. Blythe's slower steps, still with the quad cane, were less familiar but were unmistakable. Odd, Cuddy thought, how different two sets of cane-assisted steps could be, how much Blythe's tentative progress into the hospital room differed from House's steps which she had heard a thousand times and would know anywhere. Blythe was steady but boring, simple ambulation, foot, cane, foot. House's steps were more uneven but also sharply decisive, a strong personality even through the disability. Nobody could mark any part of him, footsteps included, down as ordinary. Cuddy forced herself not to smile.

In, out. Deep, even breaths. House's fingers twitched slightly, his right hand in her left, and she forced herself not to react, although she fought back another smile. He wanted their subterfuge to succeed himself, but he was also silently laughing, sharing the joke. Definitely like kids staying up past bedtime and pretending not to. She gave him a minute and hopefully invisible squeeze back.

Susan stopped by Cuddy's bed, and Cuddy heard Rachel make a soft sound, instantly shushed by Susan. "They do look worn out," Blythe said in her attempt at a whisper, which characteristically was painfully obvious and far from discreet.

"We'd better just leave them alone. We can visit tomorrow." The steps turned away.

"No!" That was Rachel, a little sharper, and Cuddy fought the urge to open her eyes and call the game off. It was only consideration for House that held her back. He wanted to hear her story of Abby, and strength was a rare currency for him at the moment. A visit now with Rachel would wipe him out again, and he would feel like he had failed Cuddy by once more putting off the story.

"Shhh." Blythe's voice was louder than Rachel's had been. "Why don't we go find some ice cream, okay? You'd like that, wouldn't you." Cuddy gritted her teeth and forced her breathing to stay even. "Come on."

A few more steps, and they were gone, carefully sliding the glass door to the ICU room closed. Cuddy counted to 100 and then opened her eyes for a quick check.

"Is the . . ." Frustration tackled amusement in House's opening eyes and knocked it to the mat. He sighed and fought the word out. "Coast clear?"

"Yes. I feel like a guilty school kid again. The nights lying there pretending to be asleep and hoping Mom and Dad would buy it. Did you ever play . . ." She broke off, seeing his eyes go distant. The times when he had feigned sleep in childhood had not been a game. "I apologize," she said softly.

He shook his head, firmly seizing the present. "It's okay. What about . . . Abby?"

She smiled. "I couldn't go in, you know, not with the wheelchair. Maybe next week I can walk in, but for now, Wilson parked me by the observation window. I just sat there and _watched._" She gave a happy sigh. "She's so little, of course, but just watching every twitch, every breath. It was like seeing a miracle. I'm looking forward to actually holding her down the road, but for today, just watching her _live_ was enough somehow." She looked over, and their eyes met, sharing it. After a moment, she went on. "She still has a fever of 101.2, but it's coming down. The nurse said she's responding to the antibiotics. She had one desaturation while I was there. That was frightening, but they were right on top of it. I know she's been doing that. As long as she's on the monitors . . ." She trailed off, imagining nights at home of simply listening to her daughter's breaths.

House followed her unerringly. "She'll be better . . .it gets better by then."

"Logically, I know that, Greg. I know they won't discharge her until she's stable. But I wonder if I'll be able to believe that the first few nights at least."

He nodded. "We can put a. . . crib by the . . . bed."

She knew that he would be no less vigilant in sleep those early nights than she was. Amazing to imagine that tiny baby in her incubator with the swarm of life support equipment being at home in a crib. "We hadn't even gotten the nursery rearranged yet. I would feel better with her with us at first, though. We can move her in with Rachel later, and then move Rachel out to her own room when she gets big enough to want one. They aren't that far apart in age, though. Hopefully they'll be close." She smiled. "Lyla and I never were close. It was like a competition. Not that Mom and Dad helped much; they almost _made _it into a competition at times."

House nodded. "We'll have to be careful . . . Rachel will need her own . . . time. . . Abby will need so much."

"Right. We'll have to be careful to try to keep some balance there. Rachel won't understand the medical needs at first." She smiled again. "It just seems so normal somehow to be sitting here thinking about averting sibling rivalry. Something worlds away from hospitals."

"We'll get there," House reassured her, hoping it was the right thing to say. He knew that Abby was far from out of the woods yet, and the medical facts were foremost in his mind, but if Cuddy wanted to talk about the future like a normal family, he would try for her. She seemed to need the reassurance.

"Yes. We will get there. No drunk driver is going to destroy us." She drifted off into silence for a moment, remembering for perhaps the thousandth time that there could be no more children, no more chances. House squeezed her hand, and she looked back over at him. "Oh, I didn't tell you about the bear. I've got to do that; it was funny, although I didn't mean it to be."

"What?"

"Wilson came tracking me down after I'd been looking at Abby for two hours. I'd totally lost track of the time. But then I suddenly wanted to get her something before we came back up here. Her second gift." He quirked an eyebrow. "You gave her your Ipod."

"They still . . . "

"Yes. It was right there. She still likes it, the nurse said. Anyway, I wanted to get her a bear. So Wilson and I went to the gift shop, and of course, the selection was as stereotyped as you can get. I've got to try to expand our choices a little bit when I get back to work; just because people are in the hospital doesn't mean they don't want some variety in gifts. I finally picked out a little bear and took it up to the register, and it was only then that I realized that all of my money and credit cards are in my purse, which is locked up with my things somewhere."

House laughed softly. "Wilson . . ."

"You guessed it. He looked totally resigned, just pulled out his wallet."

"He probably thinks . . . I'm a bad . . . influence."

She laughed. "I guess we can count it as his first gift to her, too. Dual qualifying gift. They had to sterilize it, of course, but I'll go back tomorrow and get a picture of her with the bear in there. I did have them bring me my cell phone, at least, even if I wasn't thinking about money." She looked back over at him. "This feels . . . almost normal. For the first time since the wreck."

He was glad she felt that. He himself was still acutely aware of how little of the conversation he was carrying. Part of him wanted to tell her about hell, but he knew that as Jensen had said, it was too much for him to go through that long chronicle fighting every word. He could try telling it musically with her, but he wasn't sure it would work. For one thing, he wasn't sure he had the energy for round two himself, but more importantly, he didn't think she did. He was under no illusions just how hard that session had been on Jensen, who was not only a brilliant psychiatrist but a musician himself. House didn't think that a still-convalescing and more emotionally invested Cuddy could take a comparable session herself, at least not until she was much healthier. No, describing hell to Cuddy would have to take other forms, either writing it out some time when he wasn't so tired, or maybe in a hundred smaller segments. He did feel better for having had the whole thing out with Jensen, though.

"Greg?" He focused, wondering how many times she had called him. "Where were you? Your heart rate is going up some again." He looked over at the monitor himself. It was, not as much as it had been, but definitely responding to his thoughts.

"I can't." He shook his head. "I will tell . . . you. But not . . ." He ground to a frustrated halt. "I will," he promised.

She squeezed his hand, understanding that it wasn't willingness that was the issue. "We'll figure out a way, Greg. And it will get better. Things _will _get better. For you just like Abby."

He settled back into the pillows, feeling the tiredness wash over him again. He suddenly envied Rachel out having ice cream while he was the one who had to go to bed early, even earlier than she did.

Cuddy reached over and hit the call button, summoning the nurse and asking for more pain medicine. He would have resisted if he had had the energy, but he knew that his body wouldn't take much more today. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Cuddy smacked his right hand carefully. "I've told you not to say that to me. Truth is, I'm worn out myself. I think we both need to go on to sleep. I've had a busy day, too."

He smiled. "I'm glad you saw . . . her."

"So am I."

The nurse entered at that point, going through final checks for the night, updating the charts. Cuddy gingerly got out of bed and headed to the bathroom, glad to be rid of the catheter at least. By the time she came back, the pill cup was sitting by her bed, and the nurse was standing by House's with the syringe. Obviously, he hadn't wanted to get the booster dose of morphine for the night until she had returned. She hauled her protesting body into bed and gulped down her own meds with a glass of water. The nurse injected his IV and then left the room.

"Good night, Greg," Cuddy said. She picked up his hand again and tightened her grip on it. His slowly drooping eyes fixed on their intertwined fingers. "What is it?"

"You . . . helped . . . me." The words were even more slow motion than usual, but he seemed to be fighting to get that one concept out at least before settling into drug-induced rest.

"In hell, you mean? In your coma?"

"Yes." His eyes fell shut. "Thanks."

Cuddy felt a surge of gratitude, glad to know that somehow, in those long days of unresponsiveness, she had made a difference for him. The details could wait; the fact was enough right now. She held herself awake as long as she could, just listening to his even breaths, hearing his steady heart beat on the monitor, and just as with Abby, even knowing the difficulties still ahead, she was totally absorbed in the miracle of the present.


	47. Chapter 47

Here's 47. Sorry to House for the PT assessment, but honestly, given the view we've had of his scar (Skin Deep, etc.), his descriptions of the infarction, surgery, and result in Three Stories, and Wilson calling the defect a "giant hole in his leg," I have never bought the happy idea that if House would just try PT for a few months, his leg would be okie dokey and practically good as new. Improvement there to be made, probably yes. Nearly normal functional results at the end, no. I also, of course, don't buy that getting rid of the pain with ketamine would magically restore his muscle and make him able to run 8 miles with no limp, nor do I buy that plain ibuprofen would be a sufficient treatment at the moment, speaking purely physically and not psychosomatically. I think House is physically heading for a fall on the show, and while this may sound cruel, I hope that it actually is a physical one, a medical crisis and not only psychosomatic/psychiatric, because I think they have done a disservice to the purely physical side of his issues in this show. And their absolutely absurd portrayal of Taub and Foreman on Vicodin to "get into House's head" only emphasized that. That scene practically was waving a flag that read, "For a good time, try Vicodin." I have in the past, including at multiple pill doses, prescribed for physical injury. It is a pain killer. The docs themselves warn you not to drive because it may cause drowsiness, not because it may cause allegedly responsible professionals to act like giddy, loopy schoolkids racing around trying to prank each other.

Usual medical disclaimers on this end apply; I'm not a doc or any of these involved specialists, just an unpaid fanfiction writer who has done my best to do research, which may itself be faulted. But if you are looking to medically nitpik, the show itself has made much more howling errors than I have, so turn your spotlight and energies there.

(H/C)

The first visitor Saturday morning wasn't the mothers with Rachel but the physical therapist. House was just finishing breakfast, enjoying finally having a normal meal, when the therapist walked in. "Morning, House."

House tightened up without replying, and the therapist gave an inward smile, carefully hidden. He had been working with House for several months now following his severe ankle sprain. The ankle was doing extremely well, pretty much back to before, but House had been disappointed that his right thigh hadn't improved more than it had. He had still been working on things before the crash, but the steady improvement seen at first, when his ankle was the focus issue, hadn't been there in the recent sessions. Improvement in the leg was going to be much longer term and also realistically was most likely limited.

The physical therapist actually had a lot more respect for House than he had previously. All those years watching the doctor limp around the hospital, snarking at everyone, insisting on holding his cane wrong, carrying not a chip but an entire log on his shoulder and daring the world to comment or knock it off, had of course stirred up a professional opinion in the therapist that if only he would really try and put in a concerted course of physical therapy, everything would be improved. To a surface glance, House's issues had seemed as much temperamental as physical. But now that the therapist had seen the actual leg, the amount of muscle missing, had gone over the records of the infarction surgery himself, and had seen House diligently working at therapy for months, he had a new appreciation for what House had to live with. He no longer questioned that there was real physical pain, and while he hoped the exercises would help some as they continued past the ankle injury, he no longer thought that any kind of a return to pre-infarction function was a realistic goal. House's leg would always be a functional disability. The therapist hadn't shared that opinion with House yet; he knew that he didn't have to. He was afraid pointing it out would only make House quit therapy altogether.

Then everything had literally come to a crashing halt at the hands of the drunk driver.

The physical therapist walked over to the bed. "I know, I know, you're just delighted to see me, but Dawson called me in on a consult."

House thought of a few snarky greetings but knew he wouldn't be able to get them out uninhibited. Damn, this was frustrating. He couldn't even tell people off like he wanted. Cuddy read his thoughts and gave his hand a squeeze.

"Can't do a . . . session today," House said finally. "Sorry. Busy."

"I wasn't going to suggest a regular session," the therapist assured him. He reached for the sheet. "May I look at your left leg?"

House shrugged. The therapist had seen the right one many times now. He might as well see the other one injured, for variety if nothing else. The therapist flipped the sheet back, and Cuddy leaned over from her hospital bed, flinching slightly, to get a better look. House studied things himself. The deep bruising was still quite visible on the left thigh, in fact had expanded over the ensuing days, of course. No longer could you make out the imprint of the arm rest on the driver's door. The therapist gently palpated the muscle, feeling House tense up. Finally, he pulled the sheet back up.

"Deep muscle bruising, as you know. That's going to take several weeks to completely heal itself, but in the meantime, I did have a few suggestions." House looked curious and cautious at the same time. "Not exercises yet; the legs are both still too touchy, and I can tell it's just waiting to go into a spasm, too. I thought we might add Flexeril for the moment." The antispasmodic would probably help both legs. "I want to restart the anti-inflammatories as soon as possible, too. I realize that was making the head injury worse before your surgery, but it will help your legs. I'll talk to Dawson about timetable on that. One more suggestion. I'd like to get you down to the department and . . ."

"NO," House said with finality. Part of his brain observing noticed that the volume didn't hurt quite as much as it had on previous days, but most of him was just imagining one of the tortures of hell PT sessions at the moment. His legs nearly went into spasm just thinking about it.

"Not a usual session," the physical therapist repeated. "I agree; everything is far too acutely annoyed right now. But I was thinking of the whirlpool."

"That's a great idea," Cuddy stated. "That would probably feel wonderful, Greg. Think about it."

He was thinking about it - the delightfully hot water, the jets massaging sore spots, and the fact that he would have to be basically picked up at the moment and put in.

"It will help the muscles," the therapist emphasized. "And a few whirlpool treatments might help speed up the point at which we can get an assessment of whether you have systemic balance issues to work through."

Finally, House nodded. "Okay."

"Great. I'll get you on the schedule for today. I'll get Flexeril added, too, and ask Dawson about the anti-inflammatories. I know they'll be switching you back to oral meds pretty soon." The therapist turned to leave and nearly bumped into the speech pathologist. Cuddy fought back a groan. Lousy timing there; having just endured one consult, House was in no frame of mind to face another immediately.

The speech pathologist, unfortunately, did not have prior experience of House. In fact, she hadn't been at the hospital many months, and what she had heard of House through the grapevine had been as much astonished tales of their wedding as stories about how hard he could be to deal with. She had decided that anybody capable of writing a song for his wife and surprising her by playing it in public at their wedding simply couldn't be all that bad and probably was a softee at heart. "Good morning, Dr. House, Dr. Cuddy!" Her voice itself was bright eyed and bushy tailed. "I'm with the speech pathology department, and Dr. Dawson put in a consult. So, let's get down to work, shall we?"

Cuddy cringed. She could feel pressure building up in House. "Could you possibly do it some other day?"

"Dr. Dawson wanted it as soon as possible, and I'm off at noon today and then off tomorrow. So I thought we'd do it early, hopefully before any visitors." She smiled at House, demonstrating a set of pearly whites that might have starred in any toothpaste commercial. "Don't worry; no needles at all. My consults are painless."

House decided that telling her off was worth fighting it out. "Go to . . . hell and leave . . . me alone."

Unfortunately, the result of his statement was only to arouse her professional observations. "That's really fascinating. Dr. Dawson said you were having just slight word-finding difficulty, mostly with nouns and names. I'm sure we'll be able to work past that without much trouble. You're quite fortunate, you know; a lot of stroke and TBI victims have much more problems than this." She took out her notebook. "Okay, let's get a thorough evaluation, and then we'll work out a plan for our recovery."

"MY . . . recovery," House snapped. "You weren't invited."

"Things go so much better with a team concept," she said.

Cuddy thought House might explode. She squeezed his hand again. "We are expecting visitors any moment, so could you please hurry up?" She made a mental note to add more funding to the speech pathology department, enough to hire people who weren't Pollyannas to at least give grumpy, sarcastic patients a choice.

The speech pathologist got down to a thorough evaluation, running House through a few tests which, unfortunately, did just what they were designed to and made painfully obvious his problem areas. "Really, this is minor," the woman assured them. "I'm sure we can overcome this with regular sessions for a while. Now, there are a few techniques that help. First, do chase out the words, even though it's annoying. It will get easier. Try to practice in non pressure situations. Sometimes it can help to think of the first letter or initial sound of the word you're looking for; a lot of times you can get to just part of it easier than the whole, and that will remind your brain of the rest. Another technique is to think of the definition, sort of define a circle around the word you are after, not to avoid it but to show your mind the outlines of the blank it needs to fill in. That will help remind you of the word."

At that moment, with abysmally spectacular timing, Blythe, Susan, and Rachel entered the room. Cuddy literally groaned and closed her eyes for a minute. Could this morning go any worse?

"Oh, good morning, Greg!" Blythe walked slowly around the bed and bent over to kiss him.

"Hi . . . Mom," he replied.

"Exactly," the speech pathologist emphasized. "Push yourself to it. Don't accept the blanks."

"Dada!" Rachel reached out, and Susan came around to put her on the bed. House held her, grateful for the one person right now who was looking at him as usual. Rachel reached up again curiously to the bandage around his head, and he gently pushed her hands back down.

"No."

"No," she repeated, annoyed, reaching back up.

"No," he replied firmly.

She gave up with a sigh and settled against him, her arms wrapping around the sides of his chest. "Dada."

"Are you one of his doctors?" Susan asked.

"I'm a speech pathologist." She sorted out her notes and stood up. "Well, Dr. House, I think you have a very good prognosis. I'll set up appointments for sessions every day that somebody is here, and we'll get right to work on things."

"NO!" he said sharply.

Rachel straightened up off his chest, surprised at his tone, and followed his eyes, turning around to face the woman who seemed to be annoying her father. "No!" she repeated sharply, willing to side with him in whatever confrontation.

House gritted his teeth. "No . . . sessions. I can do . . . it on my own. Don't need . . .help . . . from you."

"Gregory, that's not very nice," Blythe said reproachfully. "She's just trying to help you get better."

"I don't need . . . help." Damned if he was going to sit through daily sessions with this oversized cheerleader telling him that "we" were doing well and how small "our" problems were. "I'll work alone."

"Dr. House, studies have shown that the majority of patients have a much better response to the therapy environment than just making unorganized efforts themselves."

Cuddy firmly stepped in. "Thank you, that will be all for today. Do not make any appointments unless you hear otherwise."

The speech pathologist shook her head in mild-mannered reproach at uncooperative patients, but she took her dismissal from the Dean and left.

Unfortunately, Blythe and Susan didn't. Susan stepped in now. "Greg, don't you think it would be better to listen to her?"

He shook his head. "I'd commit . . . murder. Not her. I'll do . . . exercises myself."

"Greg, this isn't your field," Blythe protested.

House closed his eyes and counted to 10 in every language he knew, afraid that he was about to commit murder on closer-related targets than the speech pathologist. Cuddy firmly pushed her sheet back. "Mother, Blythe, why don't we all take a trip down to the observation window and look at Abby." She pushed herself up, wincing, and slowly walked the few steps to the wheelchair parked by the wall. "I wanted to get a picture of her with a bear I got her yesterday. Would you pick up my cell phone, please, Mother? It's on the nightstand."

Susan picked up the cell phone and handed it to her daughter. Blythe was still fluttering uncertainly beside her son's bed. "I'd like to see Abby, of course, but what about Greg? We can't leave him here alone."

"I'm hurt," House protested. "Not senile."

"He won't be alone," Cuddy pointed out. "He can keep Rachel. I'm sure they'd appreciate some time alone."

"But what if something comes up? He can't . . ."

House cut his mother off. "There's a . . . button. Neat . . . invention. Push it. . . People come."

Blythe still looked uncertain. "Come on, Blythe. Come on, Mom." Cuddy started wheeling herself out of the room, and Susan immediately worried that she would strain herself and came up to push. Slowly Blythe came around to join them. "We'll see you in a little while, Greg," Cuddy said. In as long a little while as she could possibly stall for. He was going to erupt if this morning got any worse.

Blythe turned back at the door for one final caution. "You be careful, Greg. Call somebody if you need something."

"I will," he promised. She turned to follow the wheelchair, and House gave a sigh of relief and settled back against the pillow. What a morning. His arms were still securely around Rachel, and she reached up to pat his closed eyelids. He opened them. "Hi. . . Rachel."

He was damned if he was going to therapy with that woman. He would work on things, but working on them alone was just as good. Start where he was. He decided to come up with Rachel's name twenty times in a row, make himself say it and count them. "Rachel," he said.

She laughed and hugged him. "Dada."

_One._

"Hi . . . Rachel."

She patted his chest. "Dada."

_Two._


	48. Chapter 48

Some time later, House was still totally focused with Rachel on the bed. He was now writing down medical terms on his pad and forcing himself to say them out loud, which was rapidly becoming even more frustrating with the longer, more intricate labels. Rachel was the saving grace in all of it. She, having no idea what words like dysdiadochokinesia meant, was quite convinced that he was making nonsense sounds for her benefit, and she laughed at the game. He smiled at her even through the annoyance.

A knock sounded at the door, and he looked up to see Jensen. "May I come in?" the psychiatrist asked.

"Yes," House replied. It suddenly struck him that neither the speech therapist nor the physical therapist had asked permission for entrance. They had simply barged in. On the other hand, had he himself routinely asked, granting the patient that small semblance of even illusory control, or had he simply limped briskly on in?

Jensen sat down in the visitor's chair. "Are the mothers and Dr. Cuddy with Abby?"

"Yes. Giving me a . . . break."

Jensen smiled. "Are they worse than usual this morning?"

"Yes. And . . . consults. PT. And the speech . . . therapist is too bright." House gave a sigh of frustration. "Wanted to set up . . . sessions. . . I'd kill her."

The psychiatrist looked at the pad, a virtual medical spelling test. House had picked the hardest words he could think of. He looked back to the diagnostician's face, seeing the firmly set jaw, as well as the physical weakness that House wasn't acknowledging at the moment, fiercely pushing it back beneath the surface. "So you're trying to give yourself a session instead and get better on your own in one marathon run while they're gone?"

House shook his head. "Not on my own . . . Rachel helps."

"Dada," she replied, happy to hear her name so much from him today.

"Better than a . . .therapist," House insisted. Jensen was silent for a minute, and House looked over at him, the blue eyes drilling into him in challenge. "Don't say . . it won't work."

"Actually, I think it will," Jensen replied. House was startled out of his defiance. "Using Rachel to practice with is a great idea, and probably will work better in your case than an overeager speech therapist. I don't think it's going to completely succeed _today_ and get recovery over with right now, but you don't really think that yourself, so there wasn't any point in saying it. You only wish it would."

House looked away, silent for a moment.

"Do you remember learning the multiplication tables in school?" Jensen asked.

The change of subject, together with a memory that, while not pleasant, did not involve his father, caught House's attention. "Yes."

"Let me guess. You learned them on just a couple of run throughs." House nodded. "Do you remember sitting there having to recite them anyway?" House rolled his eyes in response. "Do you think even the other students would have learned them more effectively if they had had to recite them even more than they did, for instance if 8 hours a day, or better yet 24, were devoted purely to that one drill? No sleep, no rest, no diversion or intervals with anything else?"

House looked away, seeing the parallel. "The drills are valuable in regular small doses," Jensen said, "but cut yourself some slack. You hit a point of diminishing returns, and judging just from your physical cues right now, you are already well past that. Your body has had more than enough of this at the moment."

The exhaustion that House hadn't been letting himself feel immediately settled onto him like a dark, rain-soaked cloud. He felt it weigh him down suddenly, pushing him deeper into the bed. He closed his eyes. "Damn. Why did . . . you. . . ?"

"Your speech isn't your only challenge, nor your only recovery. This is Saturday, you know. Up until almost the middle of this week, you were still in a coma. We all worried if you would ever regain consciousness. You are making a very fast recovery physically and mentally. Don't lose sight of that in the frustration with the present. Wearing yourself out will only make therapy, whether with Rachel or with a speech therapist, progressively more difficult."

Rachel reached up to pat House's closed eyes, then reach a bit further, still wanting to explore that enticing bandage. He flinched at her touch and opened his eyes. "No," he told her.

"Do you want me to take her?" Jensen asked.

House shook his head. "Don't think . . . you could."

Jensen grinned. "Probably not. Really, using her to bounce practice sessions off of is a fantastic idea. Just don't try to build Rome in 15 minutes. But I'm sure she'll be glad to help. You really are an excellent father." House smiled, appreciating the compliment and the actual objective assessment behind it. "She's 10 months old, right?"

"Yes."

"She's quite advanced, already has multiple words, obviously."

House smiled again, enjoying talking about his daughter. "She's a . . . fighter. . . she was behind physically. Her . . . mind is sharp, though."

"She and Abby both are clearly strong willed, overcoming obstacles from the beginning. But they do have the best possible source of strength - a strong family. You and Dr. Cuddy are giving them that. You'll have a lot of beautiful memories ahead waiting to be made."

House closed his eyes again, letting his mind drift to the future. "They will be happy."

"I'm sure they will, because they will be _loved._"

The room was silent for a few minutes. Jensen, having diverted House from frustration at the present to carefully selected happy anticipation of the future, was willing to just let House's thoughts, as long as they were positive ones, drift. The psychiatrist did not want to have a real session with House right now. He could tell the other man was worn out. If House had had two consults, plus a visit from the mothers, plus intense supertherapy with Rachel for a good while, all in this morning so far, this had to be the most demanding extended stretch of time since he had awakened from his coma.

Rachel took the silence to look around the room and suddenly noticed the piano mat, which was across the room on the other chair by the window, since the bed table had been taken up with breakfast this morning and had never been utilized for a playing platform since. With the mat out of her reach, it left the dilemma of whether pursuing it was worth leaving her comfortable position being held by her father. She poked him with her casted arm. "Dada?"

House's eyes opened instantly. "What?"

Rachel gestured toward the roll-up keyboard, but she didn't have the word for it. She settled for an emphatic, inarticulate syllable. "GAAAA!"

House followed her eyes and smiled slightly. "Okay. . . if you want." He looked over at Jensen. "Could . . . you?"

Jensen doubted that House had the energy to play much but realized that letting that conclusion present itself would be more effective. He got up and came around the bed, getting the piano mat set up on the bed table, then wheeling it into position. House reached around Rachel to start playing, a soft, gentle, nondemanding piece, and she settled back against him with a happy sigh to listen. Even with careful selection, the notes weren't effortless, though, and they gradually slowed. "I don't think . . . I can." He gritted his teeth in frustration. "Sorry . . . Rachel."

"Don't bother apologizing to her," Jensen pointed out. "She's sound asleep. She was off within the first two minutes." House looked down at his daughter, startled. She was indeed snuggled against his chest, eyes firmly closed. "She's had a busy morning," Jensen continued. "Being a speech therapist is hard work."

House grinned and settled back against the pillows himself. "Thanks for the . . .keyboard. It helps."

"You're welcome." Jensen walked back around the bed and resumed his former chair. Silence filled the room for a few minutes. House was fighting drifting off to sleep himself, knowing Cuddy couldn't be gone much longer.

"Saturday," House said suddenly. His eyes opened.

"Yes, it is," Jensen confirmed, waiting for the significance of that fact.

"You've been here a . . . week. Your . . . practice. . ."

"I've been doing a few sessions by phone, and the appointments totally rescheduled weren't urgent. I was needed here."

House nodded. "Yes. Is . . . Wilson okay?"

"He's had a hard time of it, but he's doing a lot better now that he knows you're on the mend. He felt responsible, you know."

"Idiot. Both of us . . . idiots." Jensen fought back another smile at that concise assessment. "You must have better . . . things to do than . . . babysitter to . . . idiots."

The psychiatrist understood. House wouldn't say it outright, speech problems or not, but the message was there. "I'll drive back to Middletown this afternoon, after I check in with Dr. Wilson again. We'll leave our appointments canceled for the meantime. You have enough to be dealing with just with physical recovery. We can pick it back up in a month or so; you are quite stable mentally, in my assessment, and a little time off won't hurt. But you can call me anytime. And I'd like to call and check up on all of you regularly. Is that all right?"

House nodded. "Don't let . . . Wilson off the . . . hook. I've got a doctor's . . . note."

"I won't be as ready to cancel his appointments, but I doubt he'll want to."

House's eyes fell shut. "Thanks," he said, somehow unable to look at Jensen while saying it. The word was no less heartfelt for that. He knew that it was Jensen who had held it together for everyone over the last week.

"You're welcome."

Right then the return of the women was heard down the hall. House dragged his eyes back open and sighed. Jensen stood. "Do you want me to send them away?" House nodded. "Close your eyes," Jensen instructed. "Act like you're asleep." House settled back, making his face relax, leveling out his breathing.

Jensen walked over to the door of the room and stepped out. "Keep it down," he said very softly. "He and Rachel are both asleep."

Susan and Blythe both hushed immediately. "He's had a tough morning," Cuddy said. "He had two consults already this morning, and I know they'll be taking him down to physical therapy to use the whirlpool later."

Susan tiptoed to the door and peeked in. "They look so peaceful together. I hate to disturb them, but we probably need to pick her up."

"Why don't we just leave them alone until lunch is served?" Jensen proposed. "That won't be but another hour or so. Meanwhile, it would be my honor to treat the two of you to a cup of coffee down in the cafeteria. It will give me a chance to say goodbye."

Cuddy's head jerked up, immediately getting the significance of that. "You're leaving?"

Jensen looked straight at her. "Yes. It's time for me to get back to Middletown."

House must have dismissed him. Which meant that House was feeling on more solid footing on things, even if still frustrated. Cuddy smiled. "Thank you so much for this last week, Dr. Jensen. You've been a lifesaver."

"I'm glad I was available to help." He reached out to shake her hand. "Take care of yourself. I know you'll take care of him."

She nodded, not going into further promises in front of Susan, who still thought Jensen was just Wilson's psychiatrist. "Thank you."

Jensen gave her hand a squeeze and then released it. "Now, ladies, let's go to the cafeteria." He offered an arm to each, and they fell into place like rats flocking to the Pied Piper. Cuddy smiled. Jensen had a lot of hidden talents behind his impassive, calm front.

"We'll be back in a little while to get Rachel," Blythe called softly.

"Take your time and don't worry about us," Cuddy advised. Once they were exiting ICU, she wheeled herself slowly to the door, studying the scene on the bed. "Greg?" she said softly, tentatively. Not a twitch of a muscle, no change in his breathing on the monitors. Jensen had not been lying. House, along with Rachel, was asleep.

With a smile, Cuddy rolled as softly as she could up to her bed, quietly made her laborious way into it, and closed her own eyes, joining her family in dreams.


	49. Chapter 49

It was late that afternoon, and House had just been brought back to ICU from a lengthy soak at PT in the whirlpool. A nurse moved around his bed efficiently, getting all the lines and monitors hooked back up, putting a fresh dressing on his stitched wrist (although they had been careful to keep it out of the water, the heat and humidity had loosened the tape some), and in general making sure he was settled back into the ICU bed. "Are you comfortable, Dr. House?" she asked.

He settled for nodding. The nurse made a few chart notes and left the room, and House settled back. He actually felt like a jellyfish, as if when the attendants lifted him out of the whirlpool, his skeleton had stayed behind. Weak didn't start to cover it, but near slack muscles were a decided improvement over near spasming ones. He only wished that a similar treatment for his head were available. The stubborn headache was gradually decreasing, but it still had a grip. He pictured a whirlpool inside his head, jets massaging the inside of his skull, and he grinned slightly.

"What is it?" Cuddy asked.

He immediately hung up on the description and sighed in frustration. "Later," he said finally.

She accepted it. He looked absolutely drained, though less tense. It had been obvious to all of them that he'd been almost lying in the bed on eggshells the last few days. The injury to his good leg, which he'd basically ignored running on adrenaline for two days, thus annoying his bad leg, followed by several days of absolute motionlessness during his coma, had really done a number on his body. "Feeling better?" she asked. She'd asked when he first came back into the room, but he hadn't given her much of a response in front of the several medical staff there to move him back into bed. Even knowing the medical details of his injuries, the helplessness of transfers was annoying and humiliating for him.

"Yes," he replied. "It helped."

"Good."

"Where's . . . Wilson?" The oncologist had been chatting with Cuddy when House had left earlier.

"He got called away to a patient. I was thinking while you were gone. Maybe we could get a hot tub at home, Greg." He opened his eyes, and she read the thought before he could frame it. "No, I'm not expecting your current status to be an ongoing thing long-term. You're hurt right now, but that will change. But I'd kind of like one anyway. Not only for your leg in general on bad days; imagine the recreational possibilities. Note that I said w_e_, not just you."

He did so, a grin slowly replacing the handicapped annoyance. "Nice."

"I thought you might approve. Actually, part of me has always wanted one."

"Then why . . ." He trailed off, getting his differential look. "You never took . . . time off. Too much . . . recreation for you."

"Exactly. After my whole driven, competitive life so far, you have successfully managed to convince me to kick back and put the world on hold. Sometimes," she qualified.

He smiled again, imagining Cuddy putting the world on hold while sharing a hot tub with him. "We've got to get . . . one."

She nodded. "We will. And we'll wait until we can _both_ go down to the store to pick one out. It's not a handicapped perk. It's to help us relax." It also would be very helpful for his leg on bad days, but she didn't emphasize that point. She knew hot soaks helped him. She wondered briefly why he had never gotten one himself over the years, purely therapeutically, and then she realized that that was the point. It would have been purely therapeutic, an emphasis on his disability. Something for his leg, not for him. House himself, for all his surface appearance of laziness and his collection of toys, had had trouble all his life with recreation and relaxation. There was a difference between those two and efforts at escape from his demons.

Yes, they had to get a hot tub. Both of them could use one. They would relax - or not - together, no demons invited to the party, and the world could take a number. At least sometimes. She recaptured his hand and squeezed it, and he squeezed back.

Just then, a tentative tap on the half open glass door sounded. They were expecting dinner before long, but that was obviously not anyone on hospital staff, the fact apparent even before they turned to look.

It was Blythe. Blythe alone, without Susan, without Rachel. She stood in the doorway with her quad cane, looking uncertain. "Greg? Can I . . . talk to you for a minute?"

His curiosity overcame his weariness. "Yes. What?"

She walked slowly into the room, looking from him to Cuddy. "I know it's a lot to ask right now, but could I possibly talk to you alone?"

"No!" The flat refusal came in stereo sound from both beds, although they broke out of unison after the first word, taking off on diverging protests.

"He's had a rough day, and you are NOT going to talk to him without me keeping an eye on things," Cuddy stated emphatically.

House lacked the even rhythm but not the emphasis. "She is still a . . . patient herself. You aren't going to kick . . . her out of bed."

Blythe looked from one to the other of them, startled, then sighed and relented. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm leaving. There's a late flight out of Newark tonight. I'm going back to Lexington."

Cuddy blinked. With difficulty, she found her voice. "Why did you decide to go now?"

"It was listening to Dr. Jensen earlier, when he took us down for coffee. We were both thanking him, of course. Really, I don't know what we would have done in all this without him around. James was clearly overwhelmed, too. Anyway, Dr. Jensen said he was glad to have helped out, but he was looking forward to getting back to his family. He was telling us all about them - sweet little 8-year-old daughter, Cathy, he said, and then he and his ex-wife are seeing each other seriously now and might be getting back together. He's been talking to them every day, of course, but it was clear that he misses them. And then he was talking about Middletown, about his usual life up there. Activities he's involved in, places he likes to go. Did you know he plays the guitar, Greg?" House nodded. "Anyway, he was so alive describing his life for us, he . . . this is going to sound crazy, but he made me homesick."

Cuddy and House exchanged a glance, both of them chalking up several more points in Jensen's impressive total. The man could manipulate a conversation to his own ends even better than House.

Blythe was continuing. "I know I don't have family down there, but my friends and my activities and my flower beds. I was just getting the bushes mulched for winter; it goes more slowly now that I've got to be so careful getting up and down. Of course, I'd drop all of it in a heartbeat if you all needed me, but you seem to be getting better now, and I know, like Dr. Jensen said, we've got to get back to our own lives. Would you two mind if I went on back to Lexington tonight?"

House shook his head. Cuddy firmly picked up her teeth and put them back in her mouth. "No, Blythe, we understand. We do appreciate you being here for us the last week, but things are getting better now, like you said."

Blythe relaxed. "Oh, good. I was worried you two might take it personally and not understand."

"We understand," House assured her. "Thanks . . . Mom."

She walked over to the bed and gave him a firm hug. "You need to stop scaring everybody like this, Gregory."

Cuddy fired up instantly. "This time was NOT his fault. He can't help it if a drunk driver hit us."

Blythe gave him a final squeeze and backed away. "You take care of yourself, Greg. You, too, Lisa. And please keep me up to date on little Abby. The doctor there said she'll be in the hospital for months, but I want to know the details."

"We'll be sure to keep you in the loop," Cuddy promised.

Blythe smiled at her. "I must say, I'm looking forward to sleeping in my own bed again, too. It's not like I was able to help out that much with Rachel, although I enjoyed spending time with her. And . . ." She trailed off, then dropped her voice conspiratorially low. "I probably shouldn't say this, but no doubt you've noticed it yourself. Your mother can come on just a bit strong, Lisa. Always in the middle of everything, insisting on how it should be done. She has been getting on my nerves just a little." She broke off and looked over quickly at House, who had choked while trying not to laugh. "Are you okay, Greg?"

He struggled to regulate his breathing. Cuddy released his hand to pick up the water cup that rested on the nightstand between their beds and hand it to him. He took it gratefully, slurping down several swallows through the straw. "I'm . . . okay," he reassured Blythe, putting the cup down. "Swallowed wrong." He took a few deep breaths. "I'm fine."

"Well, I'll be leaving, then. I'm so glad you two understand." She turned toward the door.

"Wait," House called after her, earning a surprised and reproachful look from Cuddy. "What . . .else?"

"What else?" Cuddy frowned. "What makes you think she wanted to say anything else?"

"No . . . reason not to say goodbye in front of . . . you. There's something else. Right . . . Mom?"

Cuddy shook her head slightly, half annoyed and half amused at how his trademark curiosity had interrupted his mother's getaway. Blythe returned to the foot of his bed and looked uncertainly at Cuddy.

"She stays," House stated. "But pretend . . . she's not here." He tilted his head, looking at her like he would a human whiteboard. "What?"

Blythe sighed. "I had debated about telling you, but I thought you'd want to know. Remember the letter from your father's mother, the one I said might explain things?" House tightened up instantly, and Cuddy started to speak, but his fingers tightened around her wrist, silently asking her to stay silent. Blythe looked toward the window, then back. "I've read it several more times. You got so upset that day, and I just wanted to say I've finally decided you're right." For the second time in this conversation, Cuddy was startled enough to distract her from what she'd been imagining saying to Blythe. "There isn't any excuse. I still think there might have been something with his father, something his mother was trying to explain without totally understanding, but it doesn't matter. You said it. No matter what happened to him, there isn't an excuse for hurting your children. So I burned the letter, just so I wouldn't keep going back to it and trying to work out details. They wouldn't matter. They don't excuse him. That was Thursday night. I was going to tell you next time we talked, but that was the night of the wreck, and when you called . . ." She broke off, blinking back tears. "I do apologize for everything, Gregory."

Without speaking, he held out his arms slightly, and she came over and wrapped him up in another firm hug. "Goodbye," she said, finally letting go. "Keep in touch. I can't wait to come visit all of you at home next year, when Abby is there. And I never said it, but thank you, Greg, for naming her after my mother. That means a lot to me. I love you." She came around to the other bed, giving Cuddy a hug that was a bit too tight for comfort across the abdomen full of stitches, then releasing with a guilty expression when Cuddy flinched. "Oh, I'm sorry. I mean. . ." She looked from one of them to the other. "You two take care of yourselves and be sure to get some help at first with Rachel like you promised."

"We will," Cuddy said.

Blythe walked slowly to the door. "Goodbye," she said, turning back one last time.

"Goodbye, Blythe," Cuddy replied.

"Bye . . . Mom."

Blythe smiled at them, then turned and was gone.

House and Cuddy looked at each other, speechless at first. "Wow," he said finally.

She nodded, deciding that she had nothing more to add to that. "Wow."

They sat there in mutual silence, hands still clasped, until the dinner trays came in 5 minutes later.


	50. Chapter 50

Just after lunch on Sunday, Wilson pushed Cuddy down for another visit with Abby. Cuddy had seen her daughter already that morning during Susan's visit, leaving Rachel up with House for another speech therapy session. He'd told her what he was doing, and she had to fight back the "how adorable" feelings, or at least conceal them, and simply agree that it was a good idea. Calling anything involving House adorable would definitely rub him the wrong way. Although it was.

Afterward during lunch, she had vented her growing frustration with Susan, who spent most of the Abby visit either worrying that they would not be able to handle things when she left or giving step-by-step standard baby instructions to make sure it would be done right when Abby got home, as if they hadn't been handling Rachel just fine. Jensen's subliminal text had obviously gone right over Susan, even if it had hit Blythe. Susan also was glad to see Blythe leave, giving her own private assessment of House's mother to Cuddy and emphasizing what a trial it had been to put up with that woman for a few days in the house. Cuddy was ready to pull her hair out by the time they returned.

House had listened sympathetically to the tale and then suggested that Cuddy take her own private visit to Abby this afternoon, without mothers along. Cuddy thought that sounded like a marvelous idea, having been unable to appreciate the morning visit at all, so after lunch, when Wilson came in to visit, she enlisted his services as wheelchair pusher and headed back to NICU, promising House some new pictures when she returned.

Wilson had just gotten the wheelchair parked at the viewing window when his pager went off. He pulled it out, mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and looked apologetically at Cuddy. "Are you okay down here for a while?"

"I'm wonderful. Just leave me alone to soak up the solitude. Not a mother in sight."

He smiled. "Page me when you want a ride back." He turned to leave, and Cuddy settled to watching her daughter. Every breath, even though artificially produced right now, and every wiggle still seemed like a miracle. The fever was almost down to normal. The bear had indeed been put in the incubator, although Abby wasn't interacting much with it. Her senses were still developing. Still, just seeing it there looked somehow normal, a visible promise of a future that included more teddy bears than medical equipment.

Wilson avoided the elevator and took the stairs at a jog trot, rapidly re-entering ICU. House was sitting up a bit more in bed, eyes bright and expectant, but his expression changed to clear annoyance as Wilson entered. "Where is . . . it?"

Wilson put his hands on his hips. "You are _not_ supposed to be working. You're on medical leave and are going to be for a while yet, like it or not, and you don't need to be running differentials or researching cases from the hospital bed." He tapped his pager, remembering the message. _Come back. Bring laptop. Don't tell._ "And the very fact that you don't want me to tell Cuddy says you know that yourself. I'm not helping you work behind her back; she'd roast me slowly over a fire."

House slammed his fingers down on the piano mat in frustration, ignoring the painful, clashing chord. "Damn it . . . Wilson. Bring me . . ."

Wilson cut him off. "No. I'm not helping you work on the side. You aren't in good enough shape yet, and you know it."

House's pulse was kicking back up again. "I'm NOT going to."

Wilson paused in mid lecture, baffled. "Then why do you want it?"

"Maybe I want to write . . . something. Something longer." He looked at the little pad tucked in the bed by his right hand.

The oncologist's stance softened a bit. "What do you want to write?"

House glared at him, his eyes blue ice. "None of your . . . business."

Wilson flinched. "But if you're just after better communication, why don't you want Cuddy to know? Things that aren't either her business or mine are probably things you shouldn't be doing yet."

House hit another crashing chord, then pushed the wheeled table away with such force that it coasted several feet. "We're wasting . . . time."

"House, help me understand. Why not tell Cuddy? Who else would you be communicating with? I just want to make sure I'm not throwing myself into the volcano's mouth here."

"I'm going to show . . . her. But I don't want . . . her to watch me type . . . it. She'd worry. Want her to read . . . everything all done. Later. When I go to . . . PT." House gritted his teeth. "Forget it. I'll ask . . . Kutner." He picked up his cell phone again from the bedside table.

Wilson stepped forward, pulling the phone away from him, noting how physically weak House still was. He resisted but didn't have much strength for it. "You want to write something to Cuddy for her to read later?"

"YES." House leaned back slightly, closing his eyes. "Have to fight . . . you too. Not just . . . words."

Wilson was still curious, but whatever this was, as long as House didn't intend to hide it for any extended time from Cuddy, he supposed that was all right. "Okay. I'll go get it. Try to relax meanwhile; your vitals are getting a bit accelerated again." House glared at him in response, and Wilson could feel the annoyed blue eyes drilling into his back as he left the room. He hoped he was doing the right thing here. Part of him was still curious, but the larger part was worried. He wished Jensen were still around, so he could ask again where to draw the interference line. But Jensen had stopped by yesterday before leaving the hospital and had said simply that he thought House would do fine without him through recuperation. Still, Jensen was a psychiatrist, not a primarily medical doctor. Wilson knew how weak House still was. He wasn't sure this was a good idea yet.

House's laptop was up in his office. Wilson retrieved it, taking a quick glance around, his own version of seeking normality, as Cuddy was herself just then, unbeknownst to him, by watching Abby's bear. House's office looked reassuringly familiar, all the toys, the models, the whiteboard in the darkened conference room next door. The team was gone, of course, it being Sunday and them being without a case. But then Wilson's eye fell on the Eames chair. He abruptly remembered last Saturday morning, just over a week ago, when he had had such extreme difficulty rousing House, having to resort to painful stimuli nine hours after his friend had taken a sleeping pill. The oncologist shook his head. How could he possibly have failed to hear the medical alarm bells going off at that moment? With a sigh, he reminded himself of how many people besides him had missed signs, including Jensen himself, as the psychiatrist had said. Quickly, he exited the office and hurried back to ICU.

House was waiting, his heart rate still not back at baseline. Wilson handed over the laptop and then, as House awkwardly tried to log in with it propped across his lap in the hospital bed, the oncologist went over to retrieve the bed table, move the piano mat off it, and wheel it back up to serve as a desk. House got into his word processing program. "Thanks. Scram."

Wilson grinned. "You're welcome, House. But don't push it too far, okay? Whatever it is, you can take multiple sessions if you need to. We can always use Abby to distract her."

House didn't reply, already typing quickly. Wilson stood there a minute, looking at the monitors. House was definitely reacting to whatever he was typing. The diagnostician looked up, annoyed. "Scram," he repeated.

Wilson spread his hands. "Okay, I'm gone." He left the room but only went as far as the nurse's station, where he sat watching the monitor readouts from House's room. He still wasn't sure his friend knew his limits at the moment, and if House pushed himself too far, Wilson would be there. The oncologist stayed there, an unknown sentinel, until House apparently finished what he was doing, and his vitals leveled back out smoothly to baseline. Then Wilson stood to go retrieve Cuddy. High time she resumed resting herself.

(H/C)

House was asleep when Wilson rolled Cuddy back into the room, as she had once again gotten lost in watching Abby. The laptop was nowhere to be seen, and Wilson wondered where House had put it. His options at the moment were limited. Under the covers? Under the pillow?

Cuddy frowned, studying him as Wilson parked the wheelchair by the bed. "He looks so tired still," she said softly.

"He's kind of had a rough week," the oncologist pointed out. He locked the wheels and winced in sympathy as Cuddy stood up and hauled herself into the bed. "Is it getting any easier?"

"Very slowly. I never realized how much you use your abdominal muscles for." She settled back into bed and picked up her cell phone, flipping herself through the pictures she had taken for House. "She's adorable, Wilson. Even with all the equipment."

He came up alongside the bed, looking at the pictures himself. "She is. And she's strong. Every day she makes it, her chances of survival improve."

"I know." Cuddy smiled. "She is responding to the music."

Just then a gurney was wheeled briskly into the room. They had come for House to take him down to PT for another whirlpool treatment. He didn't respond to the noise, Cuddy noted, slightly worried. He must really be tired. She picked up his hand and squeezed it, wanting him to wake up at least to gentle hands instead of professionally impersonal ones. "Greg? Come on, wake up. They're here to take you to PT."

His eyes opened slowly. He looked exhausted. "Okay. How's . . . Abby?"

"She's fine. Her fever is almost gone. I brought some pictures; I'll show you later."

The staff had wheeled the gurney up on the far side of the bed, and they moved the bed table out of the way and pulled the covers down, revealing the laptop tucked on his abdomen. Cuddy sat up a little straight. "Greg! What is that doing here? You shouldn't be trying to work."

"Wasn't," he insisted, but there was the slightest hint of his mischievous, pulled-one-over look in his eyes. He extended the laptop to her. "There's . . . something for you to read in . . . Word. . . You'll see. Read it. Alone." That last word was for Wilson.

Cuddy took the laptop, confused. She watched the staff move him over to the gurney and wheel him out of the room, and then she looked at Wilson. "Do you know what he's up to?"

"Not details, no. I did make sure he wasn't trying to work before I brought it to him," he defended himself. He stood, remembering House's final look at him on that word alone. "I'll be up in my office doing some paperwork if you need anything."

Cuddy had already opened the laptop and logged in. She pulled up Word and inspected the list of documents, finding one titled simply Lisa. She opened it and settled back to read.

_Just after I called Jensen, my father walked into your hospital room. _

Cuddy read all the way through the chronicle of hell, tears streaming down her face by the end. But he had gotten out. Even more, he had known even while there that he wasn't alone. And she had helped him, with the cane and maybe even with her ring hand conjuring up Oma. She read it over again, and then, she closed the laptop and returned to the cell phone, calling up the pictures of Abby, their beautiful fighter of a daughter, named after his grandmother.


	51. Chapter 51

House's session down in PT was more extensive than he had counted on. He got not only another delightfully hot whirlpool treatment but also a massage of both legs. It felt so good that he kept getting distracted from worrying about Cuddy and trying to mentally follow her progress and guess where she was in his document at each moment and how she was reacting. He was feeling thoroughly pummeled and relaxed simultaneously when the physical therapist came back in just as House had been moved back to the gurney for his return to his room.

In his hands, the therapist was holding a lightweight Neoprene brace, not jointed but just a sleeve with Velcro to go around the thigh. House's attention zeroed in on it instantly. "No," he started.

The therapist cut him off. "I know you can't tolerate any kind of brace on the right because the thigh is just too sensitive for constant pressure. I wasn't thinking of the right. This would help support the left thigh for the moment in the bruised area. That's muscle damage, as opposed to missing muscle and nerve damage on the right. Different kind of sensitivity. I think it might help function."

House rolled his eyes. "What . . . function? So I can lie in . . . bed more gracefully?"

The therapist was glad for a few months of hands-on experience of House already. "You know and I know, House, that you aren't going to stay lying in bed. You're going to try to get up again pretty soon, at least to get up, if not try to walk. Only next time, you'll probably pick a time when nobody at all is around to see you. Which is stupid. You can't tell me you haven't considered doing that." House didn't reply, but there was a flicker in the annoyed eyes. "Thought so. You want to find out if there are systemic balance issues. This won't affect that assessment; it's purely a treatment for the local injury to the leg."

House looked away. "Won't do . . . anything if you hold it."

Concealing the smile, the physical therapist took the implied permission and walked around to the left side of the gurney, carefully fitting it around the badly bruised thigh. He in fact would have rather waited a few more days for this, but he knew House wasn't going to. The stubborn idiot was going to be trying soon to stand up again, with or without help and most likely without it. House needed an answer regarding his balance and would push himself until he had one. The therapist stepped back. "Okay, does that hurt you?"

"No," House replied. It felt good, actually, like an ace bandage around a twisted ankle.

The therapist walked around to lock the gurney wheels. "Okay, try to stand up. _Don't _try to walk, just stand up. Right after the whirlpool and massage, this should be as good as we're going to get right now." Two assistants moved up to join him within helping range.

House debated. Yes, damn it, he had been thinking of trying to get up again after a few whirlpool treatments, but he had been planning on trying it alone, with nobody around to see any potential failure. But the therapist looked perfectly willing to stand here and wait at the moment even if action was delayed, and Cuddy was up there in the room alone. He needed to get back there. House sighed.

Very slowly, he edged his legs over and sat up, almost cringing, waiting for a spasm. Both legs responded to the movement by ramping up complaints, but neither one locked up. The therapist was right; this was as good a chance as they were going to have, most likely better than later when the treatments were wearing off. He'd had a few doses of Flexeril by now, too. Once he moved past waiting for his legs to bite him, he was aware all over again of the general weakness. It was an effort just to sit up on the side of the gurney. Damned head injuries. Damned drunk drivers. They weren't going to make a permanent invalid out of him, either one. He refused to put that burden on Cuddy.

Tentatively, he slid down onto his feet. He almost slid further, his legs buckling without resistance, and hands closed in on either side, grabbing his elbows, holding him. "Careful," the therapist said. "Remember, you are actually too weak to be trying this yet, you stubborn idiot. Anybody else would have waited a few more days."

House stood there for a moment, getting his legs set under him, waiting until they felt a little less like they were about to fold up like a collapsing house of cards. Both hurt, but the right one he was familiar with, and the left one was helped by the Neoprene wrap. "Okay, let go," he ordered. They did so, backing off a token 6 inches, and he stood. He felt shockingly weak. He knew if he took a step, he would most likely fall over. But standing there on his own feet, he did not feel off balance. Weak, shaky, and in pain, yes, but not systemically off balance. The feedback from the ground to his feet was there. He nodded. "Okay." The hands closed in again, and he didn't resist the support as they practically lifted him back into bed. He closed his eyes and let himself be positioned.

"The weakness will keep improving, as will the legs," the therapist said. "We'll work on it a little bit every day. But don't try that yet on your own. Fall, and you'll do nothing but set yourself back. Now that you know the answer, show some common sense."

House grinned without opening his eyes. "How long have . . . you known me?"

Cuddy still had tears in her eyes when he returned, in spite of the longer than expected session in PT. He looked over at her in alarm as the gurney rolled up beside the bed. "Are . . . you okay?"

"I'm fine, Greg," she said shakily. She waited until they got him back in bed, got all the monitors and lines arranged, and redid the dressing on his left wrist, which was looking better. The stitches could come out soon.

As soon as they were alone in the room, she turned to him, but he was already speaking. "Sorry. I thought . . . "

She glared at him. "What the hell are you apologizing for?"

"I didn't mean to . . ." He trailed off. He hadn't meant to upset her. He'd thought she'd want to know the details of how she had helped him. He should have kept his nightmares and hells to himself.

She gingerly got out of bed and came around to the other side of his, lowering the rail and leaning over, wrapping him in a fierce hug, regardless of the pull from her own healing incisions. He was startled into stillness for a moment, and then his arms came out around hers. It was the most they had been able to touch each other in over a week. She was crying again, her tears soaking into the front of his hospital gown. "Lisa . . ."

Her head lowered. "Just shut up, Greg. You haven't done anything wrong, and if you apologize again, I'll slap you." She slid down slowly, her head resting against his chest, listening intently. The monitors were right next to the bed, but she didn't want electronic evidence; she wanted direct confirmation. Beneath her ear, she heard the steady thud of his heart. She closed her eyes and just listened to it for a few minutes.

House was totally baffled. "It's over . . . Lisa. . . I'm okay."

"I know," she replied and didn't move. Helplessly, unsure what to do, he simply held her and wished women came with an instruction manual. He was still floundering at times at interpreting emotional reactions.

Finally, she released him and straightened up a bit. The pain across her abdomen was getting better, but it didn't like changing positions much. Too bad. She looked at his blue eyes, totally confused blue eyes at the moment. "I'm just relieved, Greg. Happy. I just wanted to listen to your heart for a while."

He shook his head. "You're happy? It didn't scare . . . you?"

"Yes, it scared me. But for _you. _For what you were going through. I wish I had been there the whole time, to face it with you, and I'm glad we found each other eventually."

She wished she had been there the whole time? Through the beatings and the ice and the stairs?

Cuddy fought back a laugh at his expression. He was so cute when he was confused. "Don't you dare ever go to hell again without me, Gregory House. If you go to hell, I'm coming too for the whole show."

His confusion relaxed slightly into a grin. "Jensen asked if . . . you tackled my . . . father. You would have."

"Damn right. Wait a minute, you've told Jensen about all this already?" She had been going to suggest forwarding the document to the psychiatrist; she wasn't questioning the need, just the opportunity.

House immediately looked sheepish. "Oops."

Cuddy tilted her head, trying to work it out. "Jensen himself said a few days ago that he'd love to have a long session with you about hell but didn't think you were up to it yet. And I agreed. At no point prior to his leaving were you up to fighting through that with the words on top of the weakness. You still weren't strong enough. So if you just wrote it down this afternoon for me, when did you have a full session with Jensen?"

House looked away. "I refuse to answer that . . . question on the . . . grounds that it might in. . ." He stumbled slightly over the longer word and kicked on. "Incriminate me. And . . . him."

Cuddy's eyes flashed. "You can't plead the fifth with your wife, Greg. There's a different bill of rights in a marriage." She shook her head. "You haven't been strong enough. And if it wasn't written, how on earth did you two . . ." She trailed off herself. "Greg, I'm not asking exactly what you told him, although since you wrote it down for me, I think I know. I'm asking _when _he put you through that."

House shook his head. "He asked if . . . I wanted to. . . He was careful."

Cuddy was rewinding the last few days in her mind. "He left yesterday morning. You said you had a speech therapy session with Rachel after the mothers and I left you alone, and even though he was here when we got back, there wasn't enough time after that." In fact, it would have taken House the better part of a day to get through telling that narrative. She couldn't piece this together at all. "He was here when I got back from Abby Friday afternoon, but you were asleep." She read the lightning flash of expression in his eyes. "Friday afternoon. That's why you were so worn out then, so much more than you had been when we left. But that still wasn't enough time."

House didn't answer, and she released him and turned away to head back for her bed and her cell phone. "I'll call and ask him. He shouldn't have pushed you like that."

His hand came out and closed over her wrist. "He was careful," he insisted. "I needed a . . . session. He thought . . . I should get it out. . . He was right. It helped."

She turned back to face him. "How did you have a session? You didn't write it, and you couldn't have said all this."

He gave in to the inevitable. She wasn't going to rest until she'd excavated all of this. "Music."

She looked over at the piano mat in the chair by the window. "You played hell?"

He nodded. "He wouldn't let . . . me try to find . . . words. I played. . . He guessed. He wouldn't let . . . me go past yes or no."

Cuddy stared at him. "You played a piece of music, and he guessed what it meant? For all of that?"

"Yes. His . . . idea. It worked."

She was stunned anew at the imaginative brilliance of Jensen. "Wow. He is amazing."

House nodded. "We were careful . . . He didn't push."

"It still wore you out."

"It helped. To process. . . He helped."

She relaxed her concern slightly, although she still thought Jensen had been pushing it trying this so early in House's recovery. "I'm glad you found a way to go over it with him." She leaned over again, embracing him, ignoring the pain of changing position. He was alive. He was improving. It was going to eventually be all right.

A throat cleared behind them, and they broke apart to face the dietary worker pushing the dinner cart into the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's dinner time."

Cuddy nodded and slowly walked back around to her own bed as the worker set up the two trays. It was only after they were eating dinner that House remembered the further news. "Lisa?"

"What is it?"

"Down at . . . PT, I stood up for a . . . minute. Weak but not . . . balance." He smiled at her. "I think it's just the . . . legs right now. Not . . . brain damage."

She smiled back at him. "We're all going to be okay, Greg. We've been through hell already, even if I arrived late on the scene. It's all up from there."


	52. Chapter 52

A/N: Sorry so long on getting this one up. Lots is going on. Here's a short chapter at least.

Several people have wondered where things go from here, long term. Onslaught is on the wrap-up, although several chapters left including a few surprises for you yet. At this point, there isn't another story developing in the series behind it. That's not because of lack of ideas - I have more ideas than I'll ever write anyway, have never figured out how to turn that switch off - but just that my muse hasn't grabbed onto any of them to run with it yet. As stated, she is entirely beyond control or suggestion. Also, there is another major project, a mystery novel, not fanfiction, that she is really working on full speed at the moment. That one is shaping up very nicely and might be worth trying to really publish (as in bookstores, not free web sites). I have actually published a few things for money before, some articles and one privately printed commissioned book, looking forward to many more in the future. Anyway, that one has most of my writing attention at the moment. It has a psychologist as the protagonist; if you like Jensen, you'd love that one, as they are based on the same real-life person. Think Jensen with action. If that one actually hits the market eventually, I'll let you know. I imagine there will be another installment in the Pranks universe at some point, and there is certainly enough room plotwise for one. My muse is just preoccupied with the mystery right now. I usually run several developing fictional WIPs at once, but she does tend to play favorites and have a main one with others simmering in the background. Right now, that novel, not fanfiction, is in the main position.

Anyway, Onslaught will certainly be finished out, although fitting in time to type the chapters up and get them proofed is getting more challenging. After that, probably a hiatus for a while. Probably eventually, there will be part 5 of Pranks.

Thanks for the reviews and enjoy 52.

(H/C)

"Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy shuddered and woke, gasping. Her eyes met the concerned gaze of the third shift nurse in ICU, and then she immediately looked to her left. House was deeply asleep, having had his sleeping pill as well as a larger-than-usual dose of Vicodin a few hours ago on the change to oral medication and having been exhausted anyway from writing and sharing his chronicle of hell, not to mention his efforts in PT. She had dropped his hand at some point while asleep, and she quickly picked it back up and reached to feel his pulse.

"Dr. Cuddy?" The nurse's voice was pitched soft but clearly concerned. Her hands were still on Cuddy's shoulder. "Are you okay? You were having a nightmare."

Cuddy cleared her throat. "I'm fine, thanks. Could I have a drink of water, please?"

"Of course." The nurse moved to the bedside table to pour a fresh cup and handed it to Cuddy. Cuddy took several gulps, trying to wash down the taste of the dream. "Is there anything else I could get you?" the nurse asked.

She shook her head. "No, I'm okay. Thank you for waking me up, though." The nurse smiled at her and turned to leave, and Cuddy stopped her. "Actually, could you check him over real quick?"

The nurse gave her a puzzled look, melting almost immediately into understanding. "Were you dreaming something else had happened to him?" Cuddy nodded after a moment. "He's fine. He's pretty sound asleep, but we've still got him on full monitors, you know." A moment, and then she walked around to the other bed. "But I'll check everything anyway."

Cuddy watched intently while the nurse took a complete set of manual vitals on House, double checked that the IV was running correctly, and even took distal pulses in both of his feet, being reassuringly thorough. "He's fine," the nurse repeated. "No fever now, circulation good, everything looking better. He's pretty far out of it, but he's got a good dose of Vicodin on board, since this is his first night off morphine. Dr. Dawson wanted to make sure he was comfortable and able to sleep after his PT session. And you know we restarted the zolpidem tonight along with his other routine meds he'd been on before the accident." She touched House lightly on the shoulder. "He's just resting, and that's the best thing for him right now. He's doing better every day."

Cuddy gave a deep sigh. "Thank you."

The nurse smiled at her. "Just push the button if you need anything. Are you comfortable yourself?" She knew Cuddy's pain meds were slowly being decreased.

"I'm fine now." Cuddy suddenly wanted her gone, although she appreciated being shaken out of the dream. The nurse seemed to sense it and left them alone.

Cuddy turned to House, studying his face. The lines of pain were relaxed in rest, but they were not completely absent, traces etched into his features through many years. He actually, prior to the accident, had been looking more healthy and relaxed than he had at any point since the infarction, but the devilishly carefree, graceful athlete from Michigan would never totally return. Of course, she had realized even more in the last year how much that persona had been a front, even in college. House had not truly been carefree since his very early childhood, if ever. Tears welled up in her eyes again as she thought of all he had endured, and she quickly forced her thoughts back to the recent past. He was truly happy in marriage, loving being a family together, as did she, a world so amazing to both of them that they both wondered why they had wasted 20 years resisting the obvious. He was a marvelous father. His current injuries would heal, and they hopefully had many happy years ahead as a family, Abby included.

She shuddered, remembering her dream. She had dreamed that he was lost in hell without her, that her passing him the cane had failed, and it had fallen into the fog, leaving him defenseless to face his father on the endless stairs with her only a spectator, unable to reach him. It made sense that she would have a dream about his hell tonight just after reading the details for the first time. Probably dropping his hand in her sleep had triggered it. Still, she just wanted to watch him sleep for a while before going back to sleep herself.

She had been putting off thinking about discharge, but now she forced herself to consider it. She knew she was improving faster than he was, although his recovery from his coma had been amazingly and gratifying quick so far. But he had a ways to go before achieving any sort of walking mobility, even factoring in his stubbornness and the fact that House simply did not play by the usual rules, even related to predictions on his own health. Still, even with hired help, nominally to care for Rachel but actually assisting them in small ways, too, he would have to be able to walk with his cane and be mobile around the house before discharge. She knew he was a ways from that yet. And she knew he would use hired help for himself as little as possible. For Rachel, yes, but he would draw a line personally and dare an aide to cross it. They had to make sure he really would be functional physically on a limited level on his own before letting him leave the hospital.

She also knew that the only reason she was even in the ICU at this stage in her recovery was because they were bending the rules to let her stay with him. She was sore but increasingly mobile. Walking hurt but was possible, and every day it got fractionally easier, and the distance achieved without rests increased. She had even promised herself an actual trip into NICU Monday to touch Abby and be closer to her. For Cuddy, there was also a lot of convalescence left, but basic mobility around a house from bedroom to bathroom to couch was much closer.

The thought of home was almost overwhelming. To have the privacy back, to breathe in their familiar surroundings, to be with Rachel again (without her mother still around). She longed for it, for some semblance of normality. Even if she couldn't really do anything yet, just to be there instead of in a hospital bed would be such a comfort. But tonight, she suddenly knew that she couldn't possibly leave the hospital before he did. She had come so frighteningly close to losing him. The thought of lying in their bed alone, even temporarily, was unbearable. Tonight's nightmare had been just a reaction to what she'd read this afternoon, but she knew that she really wouldn't be able to get any sound sleep away from him. She needed the connection of their hands right now as much as he did.

But how to arrange that? She could talk to her surgeon while House was at PT, but she knew that House would realize she was stalling her own discharge to wait on him. There was no possible way to fool him medically; his mind even recently out of a coma ran circles around any other doctor on staff. He would realize it, and he would be annoyed at himself, feel all over again that he was holding her back. He quite probably would even push himself more than he should to try to prove to the world how unhandicapped he was. He already was pushing for more faster than his doctors advised.

She chewed on her lip, debating. They would not leave PPTH until he really was ready, although of course she wanted that to be as soon as possible. But nor would she leave without him. "We're in this together, Greg," she promised him. "I swear, we'll leave together, not because you're holding me back but because I couldn't stand being home without you." She squeezed his hand almost painfully tightly, and even through the drugs, he responded slightly, not pulling away from the increased pressure but his fingers flexing against hers. She smiled. "We're leaving together," she repeated firmly. "We're in this together."

Their hands were still tightly intertwined when she fell back asleep in spite of herself a few minutes later, this time to pleasant dreams.


	53. Chapter 53

Author's Rant: Okay, I don't know who I'd like to smack harder after this week's episode, Wilson, Cuddy, or TPTB. Taking them in order, Wilson, who agreed to be there for House, who promised House's psychiatrist he would be there for House, gets worried about House (whom he described to Sam at the beginning of the episode as a "nightmare." Nice behind-the-back stabbing, Wilson.) So what does Wilson, who not only alleges himself to be a friend but voluntarily committed to House's psychiatrist that he would take the front line support position here, do? Rather than talk to House himself or try to do anything himself to probe House's behavior, he pays other people to spend time with House so he can kill two birds with one stone, not only hopefully distract/cheer up House but also leave Wilson with all his free time and energy for his current boring love interest. House himself immediately saw the double motive, of course. And THEN Wilson admits to House that he paid them to spend time with him, including exact figures, including that Foreman held out for twice as much. I was ready to hit Wilson even before the preview for next week, in which he blatantly tells House that not Sam but Wilson himself wants him to leave. SMACK!

Next up, Cuddy. She "wants to be friends." Oh really? At what point in the majority of season 6 has she shown any interest in being friends? She refused to even take tickets he offered her for her and Rachel (but not himself) to go see a carnival or whatever that was. She sent him on a wild, painful, and deliberately humiliating goose chase at Thanksgiving (the bit about the turkey sandwich was for pure humiliation value. That sandwich had nothing to do with her wanting him out of the way. That was just to humiliate him). She shared personal details of his mental illness, thus violating HIPAA in her position as both his physician (prior existence of physician/patient relationship between those two is established in several episodes over the series) and as his boss in the hospital. Of course, this show violates HIPAA multiple times an episode, could even make a drinking game out of it, but Cuddy's offense there was extreme, even for the show. She refused to stop or apparently that we saw even reprimand later her boy toy for blabbing all those details in a public setting at a conference of the medical community. She flaunted Lucas in front of House all season at every opportunity. And suddenly, she asks in this episode if he's okay (boy it's been most of the season since she expressed ANY interest in his recovery or how things were going for him) and then at the end invites him out to dinner and wants to "be friends." You should have tried that several months ago, Cuddy. I am totally a Huddy shipper, but I was glad, in the world they've established, that he shut her down cold. After her actions all season, she richly deserved it.

And then TPTB, who are annoying me more and more with character assassination (the Ghost of Cuddy Past could fill a volume - how the mighty have fallen), stupid side stories, 13-fests, and their ridiculous decision that House's leg is basically a psychological/emotional problem. Watch Three Stories and then watch the S6 episodes. They are not compatible. And there is zero question which one was better and more riveting television. I don't want House to be in pain, but having established that world and that medical background for him from season one, they do not have license to change it. I hate it when a writer changes factual background on a character. Once they create them that way, they are obligated to hold to the created facts of that character. Characters can develop, but backgrounds and medical facts CANNOT change. If you stated medical facts in S1 on, those are the medical facts you have to work with. I especially noted in this episode the clear, anvil-worthy, "House is heading for an emotional/psychological crisis, which is making his leg hurt just because he's having feelings he can't deal with, and he's going to relapse to his addictions" message, blatant foreshadowing for the future.

The only time we have indication physically that his leg is hurting lately, him rubbing it, etc., is in immediate context of emotional conversations or situations. Contrast this to Skin Deep, where he wakes up with it hurting worse with a clear immediate weather connection (a very valid physical presentation) or Who's Your Daddy, where even before he knew Crandall was around, his leg was hurting worse (and another smack to Wilson for automatically and obviously incorrectly putting down his pain in that episode to guilt about Crandall). Watch him climb the stairs in the Greater Good, and keep in mind how much he tries to minimize and not appear disabled in front of people (show established - see Pilot). For the reaction he had to those stairs, in front of his team, he had to be under extreme purely physical duress. That is a genuine physical disability that genuinely physically hurts and has physical escalations sometimes. Much as I hate the Greater Good for the ongoing Cuddy character assassination, that stairs scene as shown then could not have appeared in S6. The S6 version would have had House notice the elevator out of order, then as he turned away see Cuddy and Lucas cuddling and acting professionally inappropriate as she flaunts him openly in clearly visible parts of her workplace. House would have then gotten that wonderfully expressive HL "this is hurting me, but I refuse to show it" face, would have rubbed his leg twice subtly, and then would have slowly hauled himself up the stairs, dripping emotional angst and rejection at every step. Cuddy, who caused the elevators to be out, although House didn't know it then, would have glanced sideways at him starting the stairs, looked briefly guilty, and then Lucas would have laughed and said something, and she would have turned back to face him and laugh along with him. Closeup camera on their faces, having a good time together as House in the background labors his way up the stairs. Focus goes soft on them, though they are still in the foreground, and sharpens up on House as he reaches the first landing, glances briefly back, and rubs his leg again. There you have it - a scene from the Greater Good redone a la S6.

I have a bad leg myself that is as good as it's going to get after 3 surgeries. It's not close to the level that House has, but yes, there are plenty of times that the bloody thing just hurts more with no correlation to mood. Weather and activity are big connections; sometimes it hurts more just for no apparent reason at all. Distraction can help a bit but does not come close to eliminating a flare-up (I nearly threw a rock at the TV when House suddenly went from such extreme pain he almost relapsed to having his leg just "stop hurting" in Epic Fail as soon as he got on a case. Wonder if they feel his missing muscle and damaged nerves magically grow back when he's in a good mood, too. They apparently magically grew back with the Ketamine, after all.). Can emotions affect it? Yes. But the baseline injury and the baseline pain are physical, and they physically ramp it up at times, whether he is in a good mood, bad mood, or whatever. But every single time lately that his leg pain is indicated on television is when something emotional is going on. They've forgotten about the other aspect of it. Granted, House has a lot of emotional issues, but that doesn't mean they are the sole reason his leg hurts. Lately, judging from the show, we are supposed to believe they are.

If you have established a severe physical cause with severe physical results ongoing, there is going to be PURELY PHYSICAL PAIN, regardless of anything emotional. If you didn't want such a large physical component existing to it, create your character with a much less severe medical cause up front, like an injury that really would heal or be just a minor inconvenience. Again, watch Three Stories. There would be real, lifelong, severe at times, physical pain resulting from that, even if the patient were the most happy and well-adjusted person on the planet. The PTB created House with that medical backstory; they should have to live with it. But TPTB have apparently decided this season that his leg pain is 95% if not 100% emotional. I would bet money that House relapses on Vicodin in the season finale, which they are obviously building up to, and that it is presented as a product of psychological and TOTALLY psychological pain. I was especially noticing the flashing neon "PSYCHOLOGICAL STRESS === CAUSE OF PAIN" message at the end of this episode.

I am THIS close to totally stopping watching this show, even given HL. He is the only reason I still watch it. If the finale indeed presents purely emotional/psychological pain causing his leg to hurt and inducing a relapse, continuing to ignore any contribution at all of physical aspects of his disability, along with even more deterioration of Cuddy, a once strong woman, into something more suited to a teenage schoolgirl, the requisite overfocus on 13, and some boring sidelight stuff more suited to a bad soap opera instead of a case that really grabs you and kicks like they used to, I probably will stop watching. I will happily spend the rest of my House-life watching reruns of the first few seasons, when the show made me actually care about the medical mystery, the POTW, and other characters along with House, even though he was always the main focus, as he should be. But rewatch S1. The snap, the spark, the drive, the momentum of the show back then just is not there now. It's been a while since I wanted to rewatch a whole episode. There are none from the last two seasons saved as "permanent" in my DVR. Pure bad writing lately. And they got paid for it. Being paid for your work carries a higher responsibility to the reading/watching public than free sites do. In my opinion, they have failed in that responsibility lately.

Whew! Okay, rant over. We now resume your regularly scheduled fanfiction.

(H/C - I'm trying this as a divider because the site has apparently for some reason decided to delete my former dividers, even though they show up in the document preview)

Everything was peaceful the next morning until most of the way through breakfast. Then Susan arrived.

"Good morning, Lisa, Greg." Rachel, in her arms, immediately reached out toward House, and Susan spoke to her. "Not just yet, Rachel. Let him finish eating. Have some patience."

"No!" Rachel protested, reaching out.

House chuckled and started to push his half-finished tray back, and Cuddy nailed him with her eyes. "Finish eating, Greg. She can wait 5 minutes." House looked from her to Rachel, then picked back up his fork. Rachel continued to squirm.

"How are you two feeling this morning?" Susan asked.

"Better," House replied.

"Better all the time," Cuddy stated. A smile of anticipation lit her face. "I was even thinking of actually going into NICU later today. Riding the wheelchair down, of course, but putting on scrubs and walking in. Just to be closer to her."

House smiled, glad that she would finally have the opportunity for a more close-up encounter with Abby. Susan, though, was immediately concerned. "Now, Lisa, you need to be careful. You don't need to push it too fast. Give yourself time to heal physically."

"I am healing physically," Cuddy pointed out, annoyed. "I've been walking a little bit more each day."

"She's getting better. Maybe discharged by the . . . end of the week," House predicted.

Cuddy immediately shook her head. "No, I'm not getting better that fast." House shot her a puzzled look, and then she saw his eyes leap to the incorrect conclusion she had feared. Damn her mother. She hadn't meant to discuss this yet, certainly not in front of Susan.

Susan was protesting herself. "Lisa, that's too fast. You nearly died, you know. You can't be ready to go home by the end of this week. Don't worry about Rachel; I'm here as long as you need me."

"She'll be going . . . home." House was taking on his stubborn look. "And so will . . . you."

Cuddy sighed. "We'll talk about it later, Greg."

"No," Susan objected. "This involves me, too, and you aren't nearly strong enough to think of going home in just a few days."

"Yes . . . she is," House insisted. "She won't just stay."

Cuddy gritted her teeth. "Mother, could you give us a minute, please?"

Susan stared at her. "Why on earth would . . ."

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Cuddy snapped. "Just go somewhere else for a while. Cafeteria, waiting room, I don't care. Come back in 30 minutes."

"NO!" Rachel protested as Susan, stunned into compliance, started to turn toward the door.

Cuddy glanced over at House. He still hadn't finished breakfast, but she knew there was no chance at this point that he was going to. He would not eat in the middle of an emotionally charged conversation. "Give Rachel to Greg, and then please give us a few minutes."

House pushed the tray away and reached out to take her. Rachel went to him gladly, but it was his face, not his bandage, that had her attention at first. She reached up to pat his cheek questioningly, and he gently captured her hands and pushed them down.

"Thank you, Mother," Cuddy said. "Now please, give us 30 minutes. Come back later." Susan left, taking time to give Cuddy a wounded look that emphasized just how disappointing it was when your own child, your flesh and blood, orders you from the room.

Cuddy turned to House. He was looking down at Rachel, not at her, but she could feel the emotional withdrawal. All his shields were up. "Greg, I want us to go home together."

"No," he responded, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

"It's not that you're holding me back."

"Oh, then . . . I can leave in a few . . .days, too? Great." His sarcasm was still just as barbed, even through the difficulties.

"No, you can't, but I'm not staying to hold back for you. I couldn't take it." Her voice cracked slightly, and for the first time, he looked over at her. She squeezed his hand. "I had a nightmare last night."

He immediately jumped to his second lightning-fast misconclusion of the morning, and she sighed again. Now he was feeling both handicapped _and _guilty. Wonderful. "It wasn't your fault, damn it."

"You didn't dream about . . . hell?"

"No, I did, but . . ." He looked away again, the differential as firmly closed in his mind as if it had been written on a whiteboard. Cause + Effect = Blame. "Greg, please, listen to me for a minute."

"Can't leave. . . I can't walk. Remember?"

"I was dreaming about hell, but I was dreaming that I missed handing you the cane. I couldn't help you. I was the one who failed in the dream, not you. And then when I woke up, I realized that I can't possibly sleep alone in our bed when I go home. I nearly lost you. It's all still too real." Tears were starting now. "I _need _to stay with you. For _me_. Not because of you. I couldn't stand to leave you right now."

The room was silent for a moment, other than her quiet sobs. Rachel, in House's arms, looked over with concern at her mother and tried to scramble in that direction. He held her back, knowing he wasn't strong enough to safely pass her over the gap between the beds, but he pushed her hand between his and Cuddy's, letting her feel the pressure. Damn it, why had he shared hell? This was the second time she had been crying over it, and now she was having nightmares, too. "I'm sorry," he said.

Cuddy pulled her hand loose and hit him sharply across the arm. "Don't ever say that to me again. It isn't your fault." Rachel immediately switched sides of concern, rubbing House's arm where Cuddy had hit it, then turning back to aim a slap at her mother. House grinned in spite of himself and caught her hand. "No," he admonished.

She looked from one to the other of them. "No," she repeated.

"Greg, I need to stay until you're ready. Please. We came in together; let's leave together."

"We weren't admitted together."

"We _should _have been." Annoyance was submerged under her tone like rocks under a stream, rippling the surface. She still had several things to say to the ER staff when she got back to work. The fact that nobody in two days had given him a thorough evaluation after an accident like that was inexcusable. "And if we _had _been, we probably _would _be ready to go home at the same time."

"Except for . . . Abby," he said. His own anger was firing back up, anger against the drunk driver.

"Except for Abby," she agreed sadly. "But Greg, I need to stay here with you. I couldn't take being home alone."

He considered. "Okay," he said, but privately he made a pact with himself to redouble his efforts. There was no reason to keep her hanging around here any longer than he could help.

"Thank you." She recaptured his hand, giving it a squeeze, then hesitated, studying his expression. "And don't take that as a challenge to push it harder yourself. Recovering from an injury and coma like that _should_ take time."

He shook his head. "Sound like your . . .mother."

"Don't try to change the subject. Promise me you'll be reasonable, Greg."

He grinned at her. "You don't trust . . . me?"

"Not on this."

He sighed. "Okay, we won't leave until . . . I'm ready." Which would be not one minute longer than he could help.

Cuddy still wasn't quite convinced, but she was afraid to keep pushing, afraid she'd get him that much more stubborn by chasing the subject. "About my mother, want to help me premeditate a murder?"

House relaxed a bit, smiling. "Poor . . . Rachel."

"Dada," she replied, happy to hear her name in this conversation which she couldn't follow but which had seemed to upset both of her parents.

House tilted his head, an idea suddenly striking. "Call your . . . father."

"You think she'd come home if he told her to?" Cuddy considered it. "She might at that. He's very big on head of the household and such. And honestly, he's going through recovery himself. You want to stay with the nanny for the next several days instead of with Grandma, Rachel?"

"Mama." Rachel tried again to flop in that direction, and House held her back.

"That's not a bad idea," Cuddy concluded.

"Of course not . . . I had it."

She grinned at him and picked up her cell phone, dialing quickly. "Hi, Dad."

(H/C)

Susan was a bit distracted when she returned. "Your father just called."

"How's he doing?" Cuddy asked innocently.

"He says that he needs me back there." She looked from Cuddy to House to Rachel, torn. "But you all . . ."

"The nanny can take care of Rachel and bring her for visits. And we're both stable now; it's just a matter of time." Cuddy smiled at her. "We really do appreciate you being here, Mom, but I'm sure Dad does miss you. He can't be discharged from the rehab facility as long as he's going to be home alone, you know."

"That's what he said. That he was ready to come home and couldn't do it without me." She sighed. "Promise me, Lisa, that you will get adequate help, like you said."

"We promise," Cuddy stated, answering for both of them. "Come on, you can roll me down for a last visit to Abby before you head off." She gingerly hauled herself out of bed and sat in the wheelchair.

Susan looked over at House with Rachel. "I'll come back up to say goodbye before I leave. You take care of yourself, Greg."

House nodded. Picking up Rachel's arm, he waved it. "Say bye. . . Rachel."

"Dada," she replied, looking at him.

He shook his head, pointing at Susan. "Bye."

"Bye," she repeated uncertainly.

Susan was glowing in grandmotherly pride. "Isn't it just wonderful to hear her pick up words like that?"

"Yes," House and Cuddy agreed in heartfelt unison.

"Bye bye, Rachel. I'll be back in a little while."

As she rolled Cuddy out of the room, House gave a sigh of relief. Back to just them, relatives almost gone. And he and Cuddy would go home as soon as possible. "Say we're going . . . home."

"Dada." Rachel hugged him.

"We're going . . . home. I will walk out of . . . here. Soon. Very soon. And no more . . . nightmares for . . . Lisa. . . Rachel . . . Lisa. . . we're going home."

Rachel listened to his manifesto, loving the intensity of his attention even if she didn't understand it. "Dada."

(H/C)

Down at NICU, Cuddy and Susan watched through the window for a while, and then Cuddy gingerly stood up, keeping Susan back by telling her that only one at a time could be in NICU. She pulled on the yellow sterile scrub and then slowly walked to the incubator, stretching her hands out through the flaps covering the holes in the side of the plastic container. For the first time, she touched her daughter, putting her hands on her abdomen, and Abby responded, turning slightly toward her mother. All the pain, all the stress for the moment, all awareness of her mother or the staff watching vanished as Cuddy stood there, lost in the future.

As soon as possible, they would _all _be home.


	54. Chapter 54

Wow! I think there were more reactions to the rant than to the chapter. Nice to know I'm not alone in wondering what on earth has happened to our show and our characters. Maybe the writers are on an LSD trip or something. Could be that the absurd "Vicodin trip" a few eps ago was projection. Ah, well, whatever. I've been pushing the last day to get chapters down because I definitely wanted the next one after this written and up before Monday's episode while I'm still capable of a few positive thoughts toward Wilson. I afraid that after Monday, Wilson at least, if not the whole show, will retreat to just a fanfic pleasure for me that bears no resemblance to the TV screen. And the whole show may well follow with the finale. I hope not. Hope I'm wrong. It's not that I want to stop watching, but my entertainment time available is so limited that I see no point in wasting it on what's no longer entertainment. This was the only TV show I was currently following. Things are that busy.

Anyhow, thanks for all the reviews, and enjoy 54. It's short, but next one is longer.

(H/C)

_Wednesday._

House was sweating. His right hand gripped the cane so firmly that his knuckles were white as he tried to secure his balance beneath him. His balance was there; it was _strength_ that was totally absent, his legs threatening to turn to spaghetti beneath him. The physical therapist had recommended using parallel bars or a walker for trying this, but the parallel bars were a hated memory from the immediate aftermath of the infarction. He _was not_ going to retreat to them, to go back in his mind to square one of life with pain and disability. And walkers were for the elderly. He could at least try to convince himself that a cane could look cool at times, and he could use it for other things like reaching or office lacrosse, could try to tell himself that it wasn't _entirely _a walking aid. A walker left no room at all for pretense and had no function other than an aid to the handicapped.

One step, right leg. His muscles rebelled, the left yelping as it took more weight while the right was briefly off the ground. Another step, and his right leg, in support position, tried to buckle. He caught his balance with the cane. Hands reached for him, and he literally snarled, pushing them away with sound. Three steps, right leg again, and he could feel the left trembling beneath him. This was pathetic. He felt like Rachel, equipped with weak, wobbly legs that she had not yet figured out how to control. Four steps. Pain flared up his thigh, and he gritted his teeth. Five.

His left leg gave way on the fifth step, and there was barely time for a flash of the ever-present fear of falling before strong hands caught him on both sides, holding him up. "Enough!" the physical therapist insisted. "That's all for today. You're pushing yourself too much."

House would have protested, but between the speech difficulties and his accelerated breathing, he didn't think his protest would convince anybody he was fine. Not even himself. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"You're making progress, but it takes time. Three full days in a coma, with leg injuries on top of the brain injury, aren't something you should roll out of bed and shake off." The therapist gave up getting a verbal response from House, who merely glared at him like a stubborn, silent rock. "We're going to get you back on the gurney now. Okay?"

House didn't respond again, hadn't actually said anything since before trying to walk. The therapist shook his head slightly and then helped the assistants walk House with full support back to the gurney. They carefully lifted him into bed, and one worker came back with a warm washcloth, wiping the sweat away from his face. "Give me a pain level," the therapist asked.

"5," House said after a moment.

The therapist immediately added 2. "I'll get you an extra Vicodin." He nodded to an assistant and then moved around himself to check the left leg again, undoing the Neoprene sleeve. Things were improving, quite quickly, he thought. House obviously disagreed with him. The stubborn idiot had been pushing himself even more this week. "Give it time, House," he urged. "We're making progress."

"Easy for . . . you to say," House snapped.

"One week ago today was the first day you were awake at all. You've come a long way." He ran his hands across the thigh. "It doesn't seem to be cramping up as much today, even after that. I think the Flexeril and the whirlpool are helping."

A nurse came back just then with a Vicodin, and House gulped it down. He lay still as they rolled him back down to ICU, but he was mentally pummeling everybody who had ever told him that all he really needed to do was try in physical therapy, and his leg would magically be much better. He wished that for one day - okay, more than one day, but five minutes would prove it - they could walk in his shoes. At least there was some progress, although minor. He had the stitches out on his left wrist now, which made playing the piano mat easier, and he was scheduled to be moved out of ICU tomorrow. He still hated extending Cuddy's stay, but at least she hadn't had any more nightmares. He had been careful to ask each morning.

She was looking thoughtful as he was wheeled back into their room. She looked over to smile at him and then frowned slightly. "Are you . . ." She trailed off at his expression, forcing herself not to say it. She knew how much he was pushing it right now in PT. It was written across his face every afternoon when he returned. She waited until the staff had moved him back into bed and reattached all the lines. Finally, they were left in privacy until the dinner cart in an hour.

"Greg," she said, "please don't try to do too much on this."

"We're going . . . home," he replied, annoyed all over again, and right then, his cell phone rang. He picked it up off the table and looked at the caller ID. He would have ignored 99.5% of the world right now, especially given what conversation was like, but it was Jensen. He'd called Monday, too, checking in briefly. House actually appreciated that the psychiatrist called him rather than calling others to ask about him. He answered.

"Dr. House, I was just in between appointments, so I've only got a minute." House knew the short timing of the call was more for his benefit than Jensen's, and he appreciated it as long as nobody pointed it out openly. "How are you?"

"Better," he stated. "I made five . . . steps today." Cuddy, in the other bed, shook her head slightly.

Jensen didn't advise him not to push it, although the brief pause before his next statement registered his vote sufficiently in the matter. "How is Dr. Cuddy?" He stuck strictly to leading questions at the moment, trying to make it easier on House.

"Better."

"No more nightmares?"

"No. Just one."

"Good. That really was almost expected; I think her staying with you is the best thing for her right now." And also had benefits for House, although Jensen didn't say so. "What about yourself?"

"What?"

"Have you had any nightmares yourself since waking up?"

It was actually the first time that had occurred to him. "No," House replied slowly. "I've got good . . .drugs, though." He'd been pretty medicated at night after coming out of his coma, simply for the pain, to allow him extended rest.

"But you have taken naps and such, too, without everything you get at night."

"Yes."

"Good." Jensen gave him a moment to absorb that this might actually be progress, that maybe killing his father had helped in the larger scale. "How are the girls?"

"No change."

"Well, I've got to go. Dr. Wilson is my next appointment, actually. Say hello to Dr. Cuddy for me."

"Okay. Bye." House ended the call. He turned to Cuddy, taking a minute to find the name. "Jensen says hi."

She smiled. "He's done so much for us in this."

"Yes. Wish. . .we could pay. But how?"

She shook her head. "You can't pay somebody for that, Greg."

House looked over at the piano mat. He'd still like to do something. Odd. It wasn't just a sense of obligation or wanting to be even; he genuinely wanted to come up with a gift, for its own sake. Rarely in his life had he honestly wanted to give someone a gift; gifts carried too much baggage for him.

"So you made five steps?" He nodded, irritated again. "That's good, Greg. That's a lot of progress. Just give yourself time to work through it, okay?"

He nodded, but he wasn't meeting her eyes. She gritted her teeth. If Abby had half his stubbornness, overcoming NICU should be no obstacle at all. They were silent for a moment, and then he looked back over at her, his attention caught suddenly by something. "What were . . . you thinking?"

"When?" She knew what he meant, though. She was dodging.

"When I came from . . . PT. . . You were thinking." She sighed. He pushed on. "Lisa. What?"

"It's going to sound silly, especially given what you . . ." She trailed off, not wanting to emphasize physical defects further to him. He had enough self-image problems there already.

"What?" he insisted.

"They came in to change my dressing on my abdomen while you were gone. I was just thinking what an impressive scar I'm going to have there." She had always been proud of her body, proud of her suppleness even beyond 40. She had kept herself in such shape with yoga. Looking at the extended, complex incision across her abdomen had felt like a wound that would last long after the skin was completely healed.

He picked up her hand and squeezed it. "I know," he said. He hated looking at his mangled thigh, remembering the athletic limb that had once been there, lost forever through stupidity. Her scar would be nothing like that, but he recognized the offense of it, the marring of smooth skin.

"I know you do," Cuddy replied. Yes, she had no doubt that he could identify fully and far beyond with her feelings.

He looked over at her. "Still beautiful."

His open, unshielded compliments were so rare that they were even greater treasure when they came. She smiled at him. "Thank you. And so are you." He looked away. "Greg," she insisted. "So are you." She squeezed his hand, and after a moment, his fingers squeezed back, intertwining with hers, both of them in it together. .


	55. Chapter 55

A/N: This bit has been planned for a long time, even before current events started unfolding. In fact, Pranks totally ignores current events from two-thirds through Season 5 and definitely from Season 6, so I'll just continue in my own little world and disregard, or attempt to, what's happening on the television. Don't try to draw parallels; they aren't there. Also, there are things that don't get all tied up with a bow by the end of the story, so don't try to pick out one thing that might be alluded to as a possibility in this chapter and want every single detail known and all colors filled in the picture immediately. This chapter is more about the character and inner workings of Wilson - and Jensen - than it is about potential plot developments, and also, even in his absence, it is about House. This is a House story. Not a Wilson story. I like him or rather what he used to be from the TV show, but he isn't the primary focus in Pranks. I do try very, very hard to have each story be a cohesive unit in itself - the "tune in next season/novel" type of ending has always annoyed me and struck me as a cop-out on the part of a writer. Make them want the next episode/season/book/story by the writing and the characters, not by leaving them hanging on a hook. In fact, I will fairly quickly rebel at "continuous hook and never any sort of endings" television/book series and have abandoned some shows and series cold for that specific sin. I will never, ever end a work on a cliffhanger instead of on an ending resolving in whatever way the main plots of that specific story were. Chapters, sure, although not every single one, because that also gets old and winds up numbing the reader instead of keeping them on the line - at least that's what continuous, never-ending cliffies do to me. I stop caring as much; ho hum, here's another one. But I'll never end a story or a book on a cliffhanger. Even within a series, I think anybody should be able to pick up any one piece and read, obviously not getting all the nuances and details but at least not saying "huh?" every other page or having no clue what's going on. That's just how I see things; your mileage may vary, of course. One of the great things about people is the infinite variety. But for me, each story in a series should have a beginning, progress, and end of its own, but there is also room for the series to keep growing. So expect a definite ending for Onslaught, and not of the "tune in next season" ilk, but don't expect it to solve every single possibility and answer every single question in Pranks life, either, and don't get too excited trying to make part of Wilson's life a new main plot, because at least in Onslaught, it isn't. :)

And with that "spoiler" and philosophy of trying to resolve major details, though not every single possible detail, enjoy 55. Incidentally, my grandfather was a preacher, and a good bit of Jensen's avoiding temptation strategy is direct from him.

(H/C)

Wilson entered Jensen's office, shaking hands as usual and then sitting down in his customary spot directly across the desk. He took a minute to look around, appreciating the familiar office.

"Nice to be back here again, isn't it?" Jensen noted.

"Yes, it is. More normal, somehow. If sitting in a psychiatrist's office can be called normal."

Jensen smiled at him. "Oh, normal has a lot of leeway. I think if people would broaden their definition of it, they would have fewer problems. Plenty of people sitting in psychiatrist's offices are doing a better job handling things than many people not in those offices. But believe me, I'm glad to get back to my office, too."

Wilson looked guilty. "Did we snarl up your practice too much? Or your family."

"No. It wasn't ideal, but everything that needed to be done got done, and my family understood. Keep in mind, you didn't see all I was doing while I was in Princeton. I did have conversations with Melissa and Cathy multiple times a day, and I did a few sessions by phone on some of the patients. The sessions privately, of course, but I talked to my family sometimes while sitting with Dr. House before he woke up. Cathy wanted to talk to him, too, and I'd put the phone up to his ear. Of course, after he woke up, things became a little more flexible once we were off the shifts."

"I don't know how to thank you enough for that week," Wilson stated. "I couldn't have handled it."

"Actually, I think you did a very good job of handling everything. You couldn't have dealt with it alone, but we aren't supposed to be able to deal with everything alone. That's not the definition of strength, James." Jensen diverted himself, to give that point a chance to soak in a bit as well as to satisfy his own curiosity. "But before we get into things, tell me, how is Dr. House doing? I've spoken to him briefly a few times, but that's not a first-hand assessment."

Wilson shook his head. "He's improving physically, but he's pushing himself. Ever since he agreed to let Cuddy stay - did you know about that?" Jensen nodded. "Anyway, he's determined to be ready to be discharged himself as soon as possible and preferably sooner. Everybody's trying to get him to ease up a bit, but you can imagine how he's taking that." Jensen grinned, hearing it in his head already. "He is improving, though. He's being transferred out of ICU tomorrow. He's still working on the speech just as hard with Rachel. He never wants anybody else there for that, so Cuddy will usually go see Abby, but I think there's a little bit of improvement. Hard to judge. Do you want the full report on the others?"

"I'll assume that I got an unedited report from him on the others," Jensen replied, and Wilson smiled. "Back to you, you seem on edge today, although in a different way than you were in the hospital. What's wrong?" The psychiatrist never would have asked House that. Wilson, though, would at least answer direct questions without lead up, even if deceiving and shielding himself in ways while answering them.

Wilson sighed and looked away for a moment. "This is going to sound . . .petty."

"I doubt it. Besides, being petty isn't an unforgivable sin. If you're petty at times, you have a whole lot of company among humanity."

Wilson started to fiddle with his tie. "Sometimes I feel almost . . . jealous."

"Of Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy's relationship, you mean?"

"Of how they're dealing with problems. It's hardly a bed of roses, but watching them over the last few months, especially in this crisis. They're _together_. They're there for each other, and things seem to be pulling them closer, not further apart. Why couldn't I . . ." The oncologist trailed off.

"Keep in mind," Jensen said, "a relationship consists of two people. I'm not saying you weren't at fault in your failed ones, but there were most likely faults and unwillingness on both sides. And keep in mind, I'm hardly a poster child in this department. I threw away my marriage by letting my family think that my job was more important to me - I'm not talking about crises like the last week, but everyday. I'm working through my own faults there. But don't fall into the trap of thinking that if you had just done things better, you automatically would have had relationship success with those specific people. There is another party in the equation. If they weren't fully committed for whatever reason, it still might have failed, even if you hadn't cheated."

"So success isn't dependent just on me." Wilson frowned, not liking the answer.

"No, it isn't. Partially, definitely, but you can still do everything right and have it come out wrong. No guarantees. Entering any relationship involves taking risks."

Wilson shook his head. "It just seems ironic that House of all people is apparently better at this than I am."

"He isn't doomed to failure in all parts of life, much as he thinks so and as much as people around him sometimes expect him to be. Think of the image people at the hospital probably have of you in relationships. What do you think is that image?"

"That I can get almost anyone if I want to," Wilson sighed. "And then, part two, that I won't stay. But where does it always go wrong?"

"You do realize that cheating isn't likely to improve a relationship."

Wilson flinched. "You said that probably wasn't the only reason."

"I doubt it was. I was just starting with the more obvious ones for you to correct."

"It's not like I ever intended to cheat."

"But did you intend not to? Did you set up a firm barrier there with sentry towers from the beginning? Not that that couldn't be overcome, either, but from what you've told me, you get caught up in feelings of the moment - somebody needing comforting, etc. If you define a relationship in terms of feelings, that's much more changeable ground than if you define it as a commitment to hold onto even when feelings lead elsewhere."

Wilson sighed. "I know, I know. I have trouble ignoring somebody who's having a hard time. I want to make them feel better."

"You want to validate yourself by making them feel better. Very risky grounds defining your self-image on how you help other people, because as I said, there is another side to that equation, and things can fail in spite of your efforts. Part of you is still trying to atone for Danny, I think. But a romantic relationship is not about making other people feel better."

Wilson looked surprised. "What on earth is it about then? Why go into one if you can't make the other person's life better by it?"

"The point is to go _through _things together. Hand-in-hand, not one leading the way. Making the other person's life better is almost a side effect. Do you think, prior to the accident, that Dr. House was doing better physically than he had in a long time?"

"Definitely. I know his leg will always hurt, but he was looking good."

"Do you think Dr. Cuddy married him so that she could make him healthier?"

"No, of course not." Wilson realized a second later the extension. "So a healthy relationship _isn't _based on wanting to help the other person?"

"Not primarily, no. It's based on wanting to _be with_ the other person, even through problems. Problems actually can strengthen a relationship, as you are noting with Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy. As I said, I've failed in this area, too, though for different reasons than you have. We both could learn from them. I'm trying to. That is why I was so careful to always talk to Melissa and Cathy every day in Princeton, and to listen to them, too. I also had told them that if something came up that they absolutely needed me back here, I would have left and come home. My failure in the first place was in communication and priorities. Your failure, or a major part of it, has been in living in the feelings of the moment, which can easily lead to cheating if somebody needy crosses your path, and in trying to always make other people feel better, ditto." Wilson considered that. "Tell me some more about Amber. I've heard her death multiple times, but what about your relationship before that? It seems different than your ex-wives."

Wilson gave a wistful smile. "It was. _She _was. She was probably one of the least needy people I've met, so I definitely didn't get with her to make her feel better."

"Why did you get with her?"

"Actually, that's the only one that was the other way around. She pursued me. Not that I put up much of a fight; she was hot. And strong-willed and stubborn and exciting somehow. She was almost like a female House. You can see the difficulties, but there's an excitement there, too. Things were fun. Never boring."

"Had she met you much around the hospital during her failed fellowship application with Dr. House?"

"Of course she had, but I was always there as House's friend. We never really spoke privately until after she was fired. I've actually wondered if she tried to hook up with me to get back at him."

"Possibly. But what was _your _relationship like. Not involving the two of you plus Dr. House, but how did the two of you handle things? Did you try to make her feel better?"

Wilson laughed. "Amber wouldn't let me try to make her feel better. She was fiercely independent, and she always tried to make me decide what I wanted, without worrying about what somebody else would think." He remembered the whole fiasco of the new bed. "You think that's better, to think only about myself instead of about how the other person feels?"

"No, I don't. That's almost an overcorrection. I'd say, in fact, that Amber probably had some major issues of her own. Describing her as a female version of Dr. House is very telling. Nobody has walls to that extent without something to hide behind them. But you are so far focused on the feelings of the other person and defining yourself by helping them that I'm sure her pushing you to make decisions not based on that was difficult."

"Oh, it was. It took forever for me to pick out a bed, and then it failed."

"Why did it fail?"

"When I finally picked what I wanted, not what I thought she wanted, it was a water bed. I'd always wanted a water bed. But I'd never actually slept in one, and it turned out I hated it."

Jensen smiled. "I've never been able to sleep in them either. How do you think your relationship with Amber would have progressed, assuming that the bus accident never happened?"

Wilson hesitated. "I'm . . .not sure. I'd like to say it would have worked great, but I'm not sure. I do think if I'd ever cheated on her, she would have run my testicles through a meat grinder."

"Would that have stopped you? If you met somebody one night, a patient or a nurse at the hospital, someone who kicked off your help-others mode, do you think you would have drawn a line out of fear?"

"Probably." Wilson hesitated again. "Okay, maybe. I mean . . . I don't know."

"Would you like to know what I've done in the past?" Wilson looked up suddenly, eyes widening. "Of course I've been in situations where it could have happened. Any psychiatrist has to. Can you imagine how many people, many of them women, I've encountered who are desperately seeking help and comfort?"

Wilson considered that. "I'd never really thought about how other people . . ." He broke off, remembering that long-ago conversation with Cameron. Neediness plus temptation leading to cheating was such an almost inevitable progression to him that it surprised him now, as then, to realize that other people had faced it and not yielded.

"Almost everybody in a serious relationship has encountered at least one situation that, if handled differently, would have led to cheating. You tend to think people who have avoided it just haven't really been tempted, but that's almost certainly not the case."

"You're supposed to be supportive of me, you know. Not telling me how I've screwed up when other people haven't."

"You are the one who brought up this subject today, James. Who are you thinking of entering a relationship with?" Wilson's jaw dropped. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but your feelings today are not just based on jealousy of your friends, as you put it. You're thinking of starting on something again, and you are wondering how to prevent the failures of the past. And that's excellent, James. That's progress. Stopping to think about what you might do differently this time is a step I imagine you didn't take in the past. You just got tied up in feelings of the moment before. This time, you're wondering how to modify your behavior successfully to give things a better chance to work. That's very good."

Wilson slowly found his voice again. "I . . . okay, so there is somebody I'd wondered about."

"Would you like to tell me who? Not that you have to, but if you go forward with things, she will probably come up between us."

"She's a nurse in the ICU. I just . . .watching her care for the patients, she really seems like it's more than a job to her. I've spent so much time there in the last week and a half, I got a lot of chance to see her. I admired how she handles herself and her job. And she's pretty, too. I was thinking of asking her out, but . . . I don't want to keep just racking up a list of failures. How do I make it work?"

"First of all, as I said, it is excellent that you are stopping up front to think this time. That is real progress. Be proud of yourself for that. Second, realize that you can't 'make it work.' You can certainly make it fail, but it might also fail without you. But there are things you can do to help stack the deck in your favor. Communication is a big one, and that's one thing Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy have going for them now. They really do talk to each other, let each other behind the walls. It's bilateral. You need to risk opening yourself up to someone, as well as trying to get to know them. A relationship isn't you helping the other person; it's both of you sharing things, problems included, together. Second of course is your history of cheating. That will absolutely have to be dealt with. It's a serious problem and betrayal in a relationship."

"So what have you done?" Wilson asked. "I assume you never . . ."

"No, I definitely have my faults, but they lie in other areas. First of all, make a commitment beforehand. Any time someone was getting a little close, I would say firmly, 'I'm already involved with someone, and I'm committed to that.' My tone left no room for maneuvering in that statement. If you make that decision beforehand, prepare yourself for temptation and have it there ready, it's easier to fall back on it. Most people actually respect that, if you say it unequivocally and pull it out as soon as you think things are heading in the wrong direction. Of course, some won't, and that brings up another point. Come around my desk for a minute."

Puzzled, Wilson stood and walked around beside Jensen. "See this button," Jensen asked, indicating one underneath the desk toward the front, totally invisible from any position in the office except right behind the desk.

"Yes. A panic button?"

"You might call it that. If I push that button, Janice will immediately come into the office with an urgent matter that needs dealing with right then. She will stand here a few minutes and wait for me to work through the chart, and when she finally has to leave, which we push as long as we can, she'll come back in regularly every minute or two with something else that's been forgotten."

Wilson stared. "You enlisted your secretary to help you avoid temptation?"

"And avoid lawsuits. Keep in mind the people who might claim that you took advantage of them. I know medical doctors have an issue with that, too. That's why certain types of exams are chaperoned. It protects me as well as my current relationship."

Wilson walked back around to his chair and sat down. "And she knows that's why?"

"Oh yes. Her father was a preacher, and she grew up seeing all sorts of precautions he took. His office had a view port in the door, and he also had a panic button. He always took someone with him when he went visiting. It was to protect his reputation as well as his marriage; any charges, even if false, could have been damaging. Of course, I can't have a view port in the door, being a psychiatrist, I have patients who want absolute privacy and would hesitate at that symbol of the world being able to look in. But the point is, try to avoid putting yourself in positions where you can get tempted to cheat. You can't avoid all of them, but you can certainly cut the number of opportunities down. Don't go out for dinners alone with women, staff or patients, who simply need cheering up, for instance. Safety in numbers. I wouldn't think everybody had to completely avoid those situations, but given your history, I think it would be a good idea. It would at least cut down on your chance of being tempted. You can have a private talk in a more public place, the cafeteria, for instance, but avoid taking people out to comfort them and cheer them up in more private surroundings. Also, I wouldn't think it would be a bad idea to set up some sort of accountability. Compulsive cheating is no different in ways than compulsive drinking. You can follow the same support system to avoid it, and it will help. Perhaps Dr. House would be a good partner on that. Give him permission to question you. Set up a code or something you could text him when you're in a situation you think is starting to head the wrong direction, and he can call back and totally shatter the mood. I imagine he'd be good at that."

Wilson was staring. "You think I should let _House _help _me?_"

"Why not? Does that sound too backwards to you? Are you supposed to be the one always helping?"

Wilson blinked. "I . . .I . . ."

"You started out this session by pointing out yourself that he was doing a good job in his relationship. Why not let him help you?"

"He'd make fun of me."

"Basing that on his response all of the times you've asked him to help you in the past?" Jensen asked.

"Well, I haven't actually . . ." Wilson trailed off.

"You try to avoid asking others to help you, I know. You need to be the one in the position of helper. But that's not a healthy relationship, James, not even in terms of friends. It would strengthen your relationship with Dr. House as a friend to show him that you are meeting on more level footing now than in the past. Just as it will strengthen your relationship with a girlfriend to open yourself up and risk yourself. Not all at once at the beginning, of course. I'm not suggesting that you should spill out your life history on your first date. But if you are in a relationship with someone, as it grows, sometimes let yourself be the vulnerable one. For instance, have you ever told any of your former wives about Danny?"

Wilson immediately looked down. "I said I had a brother. I didn't go into details." He could still feel Jensen's level gaze on him as the silence lengthened. "Okay, I didn't. Hell, I didn't even tell House everything until some months ago, back when he was in the hospital at Middletown when we found Danny."

"And did Dr. House immediately mock you and make fun of you for the situation?"

"No," Wilson admitted. He looked at his watch. "We're running over."

"Okay, I'll let you escape for the moment as long as we both know that's what you're doing. But think about what I've said. And also, remember that this is very good that you are thinking about things up front. You are making progress. I think you have a much better chance of having a healthy relationship in the future than you have in the past."

Wilson stood up, wanting out of here suddenly. "Thanks. I think."

Jensen stood and shook hands with him again. "Everybody has their own struggles, James. Admitting yours won't leave you as isolated as you're afraid it will."

"I'll see you next week." Wilson turned and left the office at a fast walk, and Jensen smiled to himself. It was always rewarding to see patients start to deal with their faults of the past, even when they weren't sure yet that they wanted to. With that in mind, he picked up the phone to call Melissa and let her know that his last appointment had run slightly over, so he would be a bit late to her place for dinner tonight. He wasn't late yet, but by the time he drove over, he would be. Better to admit it up front than either let it ride or rush driving to try to avoid it.

"Not a problem," she said. "Thanks for letting me know, and I'll see you in a little while. Bye, Michael."

"Bye." He hung up the phone, picked up his coat, and switched out the light in the office as he left.


	56. Chapter 56

Well, last night's episode was a surprise. I wasn't annoyed the most with Wilson, which I'd anticipated being on previews. Not excusing Wilson; he's acting like an insensitive jerk. His response last week to House's drinking of paying off others to go out drinking along with him so Wilson could be fully occupied with his love of the moment was the antithesis of friendship (leaving aside the fact that he made a commitment to House's psychiatrist to be supportive), and his actions this week immediately following weren't an improvement. But by far the most annoying character on my screen last night was Nolan. Good grief, I would have walked out of that session myself far before House did. Of all the sanctimonious, annoyingly psychoanalyzing approaches. It is possible to work through smokescreens without coming off as a smug know-it-all. When he picked up the magazine (and said he was still charging House ?!?!?!?!), I would have left for good right then. Honestly, it reminded me of a young child saying, "I don't HEAR you," and ostentatiously ignoring someone. That is not the professional behavior of a psychiatrist. You can argue that is what House needs. I disagree. He does need honesty, but he also needs support. From Wilson last week (and this week; later guilty stop-gap measures have no significance on top of the abrupt kicking out for his relationship of a whole couple of weeks) and from Nolan this week, he got none. So nope, I don't blame House at all for walking out. Nolan provoked that from the first moments of the episode. Good grief. Jensen, I love you even more. Toughness (as when he got on Wilson at points in the last chapter) doesn't have to equal smug judgmentalism and an attitude of know-it-all superiority.

So we now prepare for the inevitable, obvious finale. I would now bet an entire paycheck that Vicodin is involved, and from the preview at the end, House also seems to be physically working the accident site with his "only an issue when we want to make a psychological point" leg. Didn't look like there was a shortage of other trained emergency response people with two good legs there, but nope, our titular character is apparently the one crawling around through debris. Uh huh. I suppose that was necessary to add yet more psychological stress with yet another loss to continue his downhill race toward the Vicodin. Would bet a second paycheck that the patient he seemed to be angsting over in the preview will either die or at least lose the leg he was shouting that they couldn't amputate. She absolutely cannot be suddenly alright and have the problems worked out. The random and impersonal POTW can be saved in the last 5 minutes in 95% of episodes, but not a patient he's that connected with in the finale of this season. No way she'll be okay. Holy contrived drama, Batman! I fully anticipate stopping watching after that, unless it totally surprises me. People, it isn't suspense when you have built up to it with sledge hammers on the main points, twisted facts, and distorted characters along the way. It's just bad television. What on earth has happened to our show?

Ah, well, we still have fanfic.

(H/C)

House stared at his shoes.

He had gotten dressed in street clothes other than that, but the shoes seemed to laugh at him. Shoes were somewhat of an issue normally. With a still-annoyed and still-wrapped left leg from the severe deep muscle bruising and a greater-than-usually annoyed right leg in consequence, he wasn't sure how he was going to get them on.

Cuddy watched his dilemma and felt a stab of sympathy. He looked so helplessly frustrated. She had hesitated at her own shoes; bending over was no picnic for her yet, either, although it was possible. But he wasn't seeing it as a temporary physical limitation; he was seeing it as a failure. "Greg," she said, careful to keep all sympathy out of her eyes and tone. He always had trouble grasping the difference between sympathy and pity.

"What?" he snapped, annoyed. His eyes were still fixed on the taunting shoes on the floor.

"I can't get my shoes on," she replied. "It still hurts to bend over that far."

He looked up abruptly, startled out of his self-absorption. "Here," he offered. He hooked up her shoes one at a time with his cane, and she carefully extended her legs across the gap between the beds, placing them gingerly in his lap, trying not to put too much pressure on his thighs. He put her shoes on one at a time, then looked down at his own.

"I'll do them if you'll fish them up for me," she offered. He hooked them up with his cane, handed them to her, and then stiffly offered her each leg in turn. She was careful to make the process totally efficient and businesslike. She would have liked to try to caress some of the pain out of those legs, but he wouldn't have accepted it right now. "Okay," she said, finishing tying the last one. "Ready to leave?"

"More than ready," he replied. He slid down off the bed and flinched as he landed. Cuddy pretended not to notice.

Wilson tapped on the door. "All set?"

"Yes, come on in," Cuddy called. "We're dressed."

Wilson entered, pushing a wheelchair in either hand. House studied the picture and then grinned. "Oh, shut up," Wilson retorted. "I know I can't push both on the way out. The nurse will be here in a jiffy."

"I could walk," Cuddy started.

Wilson and House spoke simultaneously. "Me, too," House said.

"Hospital policy," Wilson insisted. "Discharged patients get a ride out. You know that." His eyes carried the further reminder that her practical independence flare had forgotten momentarily; House would never let himself be the only one riding when they were both being discharged.

Cuddy mentally kicked herself. "Oh, all right," she protested, making a big deal out of it to divert the attention off House. "Stupid policies. When I get back to work, I'll have to re-evaluate some things; being a patient gives you a whole different perspective." She walked to a wheelchair and slowly sat down, keeping a wary but hopefully unobtrusive eye on her husband, as did Wilson. House walked to the other wheelchair. His walking still almost hurt others to watch; they could only imagine what it felt like to him. He didn't look like he was about to fall, but the pain, stiffness, and weakness were obvious, and his stamina was still shot. Anything past very short distances, and the legs visibly started to tremble. He was being discharged reluctantly today on the hopeful theory that he would finally ease up and let himself rest more at home than here while he was holding up Cuddy. He reached the wheelchair, sat down, and gave an annoyed glare to Wilson, caught in the act of caring.

"What?" he challenged.

The oncologist spread his hands. "I didn't say anything." He walked over to roll up the piano mat and then put it in House's lap.

"Let's see . . . Abby first," House suggested. The improvement in his speech was definite now, but the pauses, though getting shorter, were still there, and he still hit frustrating blanks sometimes. He put in an intense session with Rachel every morning, and the banned speech pathologist, following the case unobtrusively just from notes, was impressed as well as exasperated by this point.

"We already went in this morning, Greg," Cuddy reminded him. They had both gone into NICU for the first time together, standing by the incubator (House subtly propped against it), reaching through the holes on the sides, their hands joining each other on their daughter. Abby, 3 weeks old today, had had a few more expected blips on her course - another infection and had required some transfusions - but she was doggedly hanging on, and she was putting on weight now after dropping some since her birth. All nutrition, of course, was still by feeding tube.

"Just to see . . . her again," he insisted.

"Through the window." Cuddy offered the compromise. Going through the procedure of getting into the sterile gown and going in would wear him out all over again. There was a reason they'd visited this morning and then rested until mid afternoon.

He debated, desire wrestling with his unwilling knowledge of the facts. "Okay," he relented.

Cuddy smiled at him. "We'll have lots of times to visit her, Greg. We'll be back regularly."

"I'd be glad to be chauffeur," Wilson offered.

Cuddy glanced at House. "I'll be driving soon," she said. "We appreciate it, Wilson, but you won't have to serve for too long."

"I don't mind," he insisted.

"We know. You're a great friend," she assured him.

"Better ways to spend time. Any new . . . women lately? What about that . . . nurse?" House asked.

Wilson stiffened up. "What nurse?"

House rolled his eyes. "ICU. Second shift. Brunette. You've been watching."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Wilson protested. He was still debating things with himself and with Jensen, for the first time in his life thinking before trying to start something. Right then, another nurse entered the room.

"Ready to go home?" she asked, taking the handles of a wheelchair. All three of them smiled slightly as they noted that she subconsciously picked Cuddy's wheelchair, leaving Wilson to handle House. Cuddy hadn't been the most patient patient over the last 3 weeks, but House had definitely been worse.

"We're going by the window to NICU first," Cuddy stated.

The nurse smiled. "How is little Abby?"

"Putting up a good fight," Cuddy replied. The nurse looked from one of Abby's parents to the other and refrained from pointing out the obvious bilateral source of stubbornness.

Down at NICU, the wheelchairs were parked by the observation window, and House and Cuddy both stood up for a better view, Wilson taking the piano mat. Their daughter, putting up a good fight as Cuddy had said. She wasn't out of the woods yet, but she was hanging on.

"We'd better get going," Wilson prompted gently. House couldn't take standing up for very long. Both House and Cuddy resumed their enforced seats, and the wheelchair convoy finally rolled out the main doors of PPTH. Wilson locked the wheelchair brakes. "I'll go get the car. Back in a minute." He jogged off with enviable ease. House watched him for a moment, then concentrated on just breathing.

Open air. The wind and sunshine against his skin. For the first time since exiting the ambulance at the ER, he was outside again. Even in a wheelchair, he felt freed. He looked over at Cuddy, who was experiencing her own out-of-jail reaction. "Nice," he said.

She nodded vigorously. "Wonderful. I feel like I've been cooped up in there for ages."

Wilson's Volvo headed around the circle, parking in the loading zone right by the door, and House had already unlocked the brakes and rolled himself the remaining feet before Wilson got around to get him. "You want front or back?" he asked.

House glanced back at Cuddy. "Take the front, Greg," she offered. "It's okay." She knew there was more room for his long legs there.

He yielded, locking the brakes and standing up, wincing slightly, trying to hide it. Wilson had opened the door, and House sat down sideways on the seat and then, after a bit of thought, went through the awkward procedure of maneuvering _both_ legs in. Getting into a car was a bit of a chore with just one bothering him; with both, it was much more involved. Everybody else carefully studied the shrubbery and the traffic while keeping him in peripheral vision. Finally, he was situated, and Wilson closed the door. Cuddy got herself into the back seat, moving slowly, but while she was still extremely sore, at least she no longer felt like things might simply spill out anymore. She felt in one battered and slightly diminished piece.

"Get better, Dr. House, Dr. Cuddy," the nurse stated. She passed in the piano mat and then a large pharmacy bag, and House flinched, knowing it was 90% for him. "We'll still be waiting for you when you're ready to come back to work." She turned away, wheeling one empty wheelchair in each hand.

Wilson walked around to the driver's seat. He got in and looked over and then back at his passengers. "All set?"

House grinned. "Home . . . James."

Cuddy laughed, and Wilson rolled his eyes and started the car. He tried to drive gently on the way to their house, taking turns easily, aware that House, and Cuddy to a lesser extent, would have trouble bracing against the car's motion. He expected a snide remark, but none came. House was simply watching the street go by, enjoying the freedom.

The Volvo pulled up to the house, and Wilson went as far forward in the driveway as he could. He hadn't taken a wheelchair from PPTH. He and Cuddy both knew it would be pointless. House opened the door himself, but he was still maneuvering his legs out by the time Wilson got around. "Take it easy," the oncologist couldn't resist saying.

House glared at him. "How else can . . .I?" He heaved himself up, catching his balance on the cane, and started up the path to the door. Cuddy and Wilson followed him, flinching in sympathy. The nanny already had the door open and was holding Rachel, waiting for them, all smiles.

"Dada!" Rachel tried to reach out to him, and he shook his head.

"Just a minute . . . Rachel." He limped stiffly over to the couch and collapsed into the cushions. "Okay."

"Put your legs up, Greg," Cuddy said. She knew he wasn't likely to move until after dinner when they went to bed. House rolled his eyes.

"Yes. . . Mommy." He stretched out along the couch, then held out his arms, and the nanny passed Rachel to him. Cuddy dropped into the recliner, and Wilson passed over the pharmacy bag and then set the rolled up piano mat in a chair.

"Thank you, Wilson," she said. "We're okay now."

He hesitated, torn between wanting to stay and not wanting to interfere. They wouldn't feel like a social dinner on their first night home, of course. He knew that they would have help, someone here 24/7 with Rachel, and that the physical therapist and a masseuse would be coming by on home visits for House for a while, but it was still hard to leave. "You call me if you need anything at all."

"We will," Cuddy emphasized. "Thank you."

"Go ask . . .her out," House emphasized. "She likes you, too."

Wilson grinned and left, double checking just out on the walk that his cell phone was on.

Back in the House, Rachel stretched her arms out toward the piano in the corner of the living room. "Dada," she demanded.

"Not right now," Cuddy protested. "Tomorrow, he''ll play for you."

House would have protested, but he felt worn out from the car ride home. "Tomorrow . . . Rachel," he said.

"Do you need any help with dinner?" Cuddy called.

"No, I've got it as long as you two have Rachel," the nanny replied.

Cuddy turned back and rested her head against the back of the chair. "We're _home_, Greg," she said.

He nodded. "Finally. And later . . . Abby."

"Christmas in January. And by then, we'll both be well enough to enjoy her."

House smiled, but his eyes were drooping. "You can take a short nap until dinner if you want," Cuddy said. "I might do the same."

He looked at Rachel, who had reluctantly given up on the piano and was snuggled against him. "Don't want to drop her."

"You know you won't."

He let his eyes fall shut. The familiarity of the surroundings soaked in. The smell, a smell so unhospital like, a smell of furniture and dusting spray and home. The sounds drifting in from the street outside. The ticking clock. This was all so familiar, almost like being back to normal. He drifted off, arms securely around Rachel, and Cuddy wasn't far behind him.

Later, after dinner, after the nanny had changed guard with the night aide, after Rachel had been put down, they lay in their bed together. No rails between them, no gap. Their own familiar sheets and blankets, which hospital sheets and blankets never came close to. They snuggled down against each other, full contact along the whole body length, neither physically able to take it any further but somehow, for now, not minding. Just lying in their own bed next to each other was pure paradise. House gave a sigh of contentment as he drifted off. "Night . . . Lisa."

She squeezed his hand, her right entwined with his left now, with them on their usual sides again. "Good night, Greg." She held herself awake as long as she could, just to savor it.

Home.


	57. Chapter 57

Just a note, not a chapter.

Couple of things coming up in reviews and PMs. I'll hit the questions/points that are up to multiple renditions, figuring there are most likely others out there wondering the same. First, no, Onslaught is not finished. We're close. But I wouldn't leave you hanging on Abby, who, unlike Wilson's possible new love life, is a major piece of the plot for this story. There's also some more to come with Jensen. You'll know the end when you get there.

Second, to this point, still no Pranks 5 in the works. Plenty else is going on with the novel and with RL. Mother's Day was brutal, one of the worst visits with Mom I've had in a long time, not because of just the old standard awful stuff but some new bonus awful stuff. Hopefully Pranks 5 will come, but I don't anticipate it to be soon.

Third, about the finale, I absolutely hope I'm wrong, but I have not seen spoilers, sneak peaks, extra clips, or whatevers, and don't even know where to find them. The only piece of the finale I've seen is the "next week on House" clippet last night. My guesses are based from what they have been feeding us with sledgehammers in their own episodes lately, not from other sites around the internet trying to get info. If you've seen spoilers that are better/worse, hopefully they will/won't be true. I'd love for the show to prove me wrong, but my faith in their writers is lower right now than House's faith in Nolan. It isn't the lack of Huddy that annoys me; it's the changed premises, character assassination, and sloppy writing. Hopefully they'll surprise me.


	58. Chapter 58

Sorry for unintentionally echoing the beginning of Baggage. It was here before it was there. The similarity will vanish very quickly, believe me.

(H/C)

Jensen was sitting behind his desk doing paperwork, the door to the outer office left open, when he heard House enter. He was already standing before his secretary had time to say, "Just go on back, Dr. House."

House came through the inner door. "Sorry I'm late," he said. Jensen came around to close the office door, not pausing to shake hands, but his smile was its own message.

"Dr. House, I'm delighted to see you back here." He looked House up and down; he hadn't seen him in two months. "I know we've talked on the phone, but that's not the same. How are you?"

"Better," House replied. "I've started back to work recently, too." His speech was not quite even and fluid, but the impression of something wrong in the rhythm was far less obvious now. The improvement was significant. Many people would never have noticed by this point. His stride as he entered had been perhaps a bit slower than before, but again, the difference was subtle. He was well on the road back to normal, or at least his version of. The other two things that jumped out to Jensen's assessment were that first, House was carrying a bulky manila envelope in his left hand, and second, he was absolutely wired. Tense wasn't a strong enough word. Every inch of his body was on edge.

"Sit down," Jensen prompted. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Yes. Thanks." House picked his usual chair with the ottoman, and Jensen walked over to the machine in the corner and made them each a cup. Coming back, he pulled another chair over slightly and sat down in that one next to House instead of behind his desk. "I'm sorry," House repeated. "Damn road construction on the way, and I had to stop to stretch my legs, too. I'd allowed time for one, but not both. Couldn't even walk around while stuck at the construction; as soon as I'd start to open the door, the line would move a bit again."

That was the second time in two minutes that House had said he was sorry, and the long, extended, nervous excuse was totally unlike him. "It doesn't matter," Jensen assured him. "You're only 10 minutes late, and you're the last appointment of the day anyway. No big deal."

House looked away, still tight as piano wires. Jensen knew a flat-out question wouldn't work with House. He'd have to scout out the ground a little. "How has everybody been doing? How's Abby?"

A smile flickered across House's face like a candle in wind before the underlying tension blew it out. "You know they were working on getting her off the respirator, trial periods, only she had another bad lung infection, so she was back on full support for a while. Anyway, at the beginning of the week, she extubated herself."

Jensen chuckled. "Decided she'd had enough, did she? I wonder where she gets that from. Did they leave her off?"

"Switched to CPAP. They decided any baby fighting that much to get rid of the tube should get some . . . acknowledgment for the effort." He flinched as he stumbled just slightly over the longer word. "She taking milk orally, too, instead of tube feedings; Lisa had them induce lactation. She wants to be able to feed her, although we aren't there all the time, of course. And we're been actually holding her. There are problems with the eyes, and she's got laser treatment scheduled for next week. But she's interacting more and responding more with us."

He had called her Lisa, Jensen noted, not Cuddy as he usually did with other people. Yet another sign that he was on edge. "Still looking toward late January as a discharge date?" Jensen asked.

"Hopefully."

"How is Dr. Cuddy?"

"She's great. Totally back to herself, back in control at the hospital."

"And Rachel?"

"She's great, too. All healed up. Everybody is pretty much, except me."

"You're making a lot of progress. You'll get there. You said you started work again?"

House nodded. His eyes for the first time tracked to the manila envelope he was gripping tightly. Jensen had deliberately avoided that topic until now, but he took the look as permission to ask about it. "What's in the envelope?"

House's tension level immediately kicked to a new high. Whatever it was, that was the source of much of his edginess and uncertainty at the moment. "It's . . . nothing."

"Pretty fat envelope to be full of nothing," Jensen noted.

House grinned, acknowledging the quip. "I just thought . . . it's stupid."

"I doubt it. I don't think you're capable of coming up with something that is stupid." House studied his hands, clenched on the envelope. "What is it?" Jensen repeated.

"It's . . ." House took a deep breath. "I wanted to give it to you."

Jensen reached out for it but stopped short, not actually taking it. "May I look at it, then?" After a moment, House nodded and released his death grip, immediately turning to study the far wall, not looking at the psychiatrist.

Jensen watched him for a moment, curious, then turned his attention to the envelope, though still aware of House. The envelope was blank, a new one just used as a container. The flap was totally sealed, though. Jensen took out his pocket knife and carefully slit the envelope open, then reached inside to extract the book. House wasn't watching, as if he couldn't stand to look, but his tension kicked up more at each of those steps. Jensen looked at the volume, his interest immediately caught, excitement rising. "A biography of Nikolai Dahl, the Russian psychiatrist." Jensen opened it, noting that House had written inside the front flap simply, "Thanks," and signed his full name below that. Unable to resist digging further into the pages, like opening a treasure chest, Jensen started to flip through it. "Thank you, Dr. House. This looks fascinating."

House risked a glance back over, judging sincerity versus mere politeness, and a small part of the knot in his stomach relaxed. "He was an amateur musician, too," he offered. "Played the cello and the viola. He was the therapist who helped Rachmaninoff when he went into depression and writing block."

Jensen nodded, still intent on the pages. "The Second Piano Concerto is dedicated to him." His smile broadened. "I've always been fascinated with that story, but things on him are hard to find in this country." He closed the book reluctantly, but his fingers still caressed it. "Thank you. That's a wonderful gift."

House looked back down at his fingers. He was a bit more relaxed now, realizing that Jensen wasn't just putting on an act, that he truly appreciated this and thought it was interesting.

For his part, Jensen better understood now why House had been so wound up. The entire philosophy of gift-giving had been distorted into a psychopathic parody of itself by John. "I really do like it," he assured him. "And it's not stupid at all. Thank you."

House nodded slightly. "You're . . .welcome." The hesitation there wasn't due to speech. He truly had little experience at this. He wasn't sure how the whole procedure was supposed to work. Jensen doubted he had ever really given a gift to anyone in adulthood other than Cuddy, the girls, Wilson, and his mother. Possibly Stacy, but the list couldn't be long.

"What did you think I'd do?" Jensen asked. The request was soft enough that there was implied permission to ignore it.

House shook his head. "I didn't really think _you'd _do anything, but . . ."

"I know what your father did in giving gifts to you. What happened when you gave a gift to him or to your mother when you were growing up?"

"He'd . . ." House paused and took a few gulps of coffee. "He would say thanks, but he'd look disappointed. You could tell it was just a front. And later, he'd break it. Things I gave Mom, too. He'd break them while I watched, when we had a chance alone, absolutely smash it, and then he'd knock all the pieces on the floor, and I had to pick them up on my hands and knees and throw them away. And he'd . . ." House shivered. John would laugh. _"Did you think you'd manage to give us something that mattered, Greg? Don't you know better by now? You can't do anything right, not even a present." _House took another few gulps of his coffee. "He would . . . mock me for trying. He'd laugh while I was picking up the pieces, and he'd say I couldn't . . ." He trailed off.

Jensen leaned forward. "He was _wrong,_" he said definitely. House looked up, startled at the vehemence in the psychiatrist's usually even voice. "You give wonderful gifts. You are one of the most observant people I've ever met, and you apply that observation. This book, for instance. That wasn't just a generic gift you grabbed at Hallmark. That was for _me_. It had a lot of thought behind it, matching it to me, and it's even more special for that. The gift you gave Dr. Cuddy at your wedding, changing the order, bringing your piano and playing the Serenade for her. That was _perfect_. You have a gift for sizing up people, for noticing things about them and plugging that in, and I'm sure you did as a child, too. Your father probably felt threatened by that, because he knew that you were better at selecting and giving true gifts than he was. He tried to devalue your contributions, but he was _wrong_."

House studied the psychiatrist's face, unable to find anything other than sincerity behind the tone, even though he was looking. "I had a nightmare last week," he said.

"What happened last week?" Jensen didn't really think he was changing subjects, more extending the current one.

"Rachel's birthday. As near as we can figure it, anyway; we don't know exactly. Just that it was a few weeks before Christmas. So we've picked out a day, and we had a little party."

"What did you give her?" Jensen asked.

"A kitten." Jensen wouldn't have expected that one. "She likes the pictures in the books we read her. She seemed to like cats especially. And that Disney movie, the Aristocats. Of course, she can't really follow a movie yet, but she seems to love the dancing cats, even more than the other singing things in those movies. So I talked to Cuddy about it, and we got her a kitten. A white one, like in the movie. Put a ribbon on it and everything."

Jensen was smiling. "That's great. Like I said, it's based on close observation of her. I'm sure she loved it."

"She did. She was laughing; I think she really thought it had walked out of the TV to be with her or something. And that night, I had a nightmare about Dad. First one I've had since the accident."

"A nightmare about something that happened when you were a child, or an extended one with him in the present?"

"Both. I'd never had a pet, but I tried once. There was a puppy I found. He had a broken leg; some of the kids were kicking him around and throwing things. I fought them off - and got it at home for fighting, of course. But I hid that puppy in the back shed. I couldn't take him to the vet, of course, couldn't tell anybody, but I set his leg and made a splint. Wrapped up his ribs where he'd been kicked, too. He was getting better. And this will sound crazy, but I told him how he had to keep quiet, and he was. He'd never make a sound. But Dad found him one day, came home early and found me out there."

"What did he do?"

"Tied him in a bag with a brick and was going to throw him in the river. He wanted me to, and I refused. He knocked me into the side of the shed door, cut my face, gave me a mild concussion. I still refused, so he made me watch him put him in the bag and get ready." House trembled suddenly. "We drove to the river, and when he reached back to throw the bag, I tackled him, got his legs out from under him. I just had time to open the bag, and then Dad was on me again. I was yelling for the puppy to run. He must have heard me. Neither one of us saw him leave, but he was gone. He never came back. Dad beat me up so badly that time he had to say a gang had done it, that I'd sassed off to some older kids and got tackled by all of them." House shuddered. "I dreamed that part of it, and then Dad came back to get the kitten instead, but Rachel was blaming me."

Jensen leaned forward a bit. "Was your father still wounded?"

House looked up, startled out of the grip of the past. "What do you mean?"

"His ear and the ripped-off decorations. Like in your vision of hell. Was he still marked like that?"

House tilted his head, considering it for the first time. "Yes."

"Which is a change in your usual nightmare format. Before hell, you never dreamed him like that. Like I said then, your subconscious realizes he is weaker, he is injured now. He isn't as strong as he used to be. You are getting better. You're beating him."

House stared down at his hands. "How long does it take?" he asked softly.

"I can't answer that, because I don't know. But do you realize how much progress you've made in not even a year yet? All your life, you've had sleep problems, as well as the intermittent nightmares. A couple a month on average for nightmares, worse in flare-ups, you said. Your lifelong insomnia is getting better now, your nightmares are stretching out and becoming more intermittent, and even under the stress of your injuries and 'hell,' you did _not _have a flare-up. And you are starting to reach out to people more, taking the risk of it. You are getting better very quickly, more quickly than I would have expected for a patient with the amount of trauma you suffered in childhood. It will keep getting better. You're winning, Dr. House. And you will win."

House looked over at him. "I was hoping after I killed him in hell that would be the end of it."

Jensen nodded. "You want curative surgery, get the illness over with in one blow, not the long, extended process of treatment and recovery."

House smiled slightly at the medical metaphor. "Exactly."

"But you know as a doctor it doesn't work like that for all patients. You can't just 'fix' things all at once sometimes, and the length and severity of the illness usually has a good bit to say about the recovery time. You have been injured emotionally and mentally over many, many years, and then spent more trying to avoid it, with fresh injuries here and there to add to the mix. I don't think you are going to recover in one big 'victory' that carries a sign saying this is the end. You'll have a few big victories, like throwing away his medals, or beating him in hell, but it will be a process. And you are making tremendous progress along that road. I expected your nightmares to decrease after the events of hell, just like they did after the destruction of his medals. I didn't expect them to disappear. Not yet."

House considered that, and then shook his head. "I know it's getting better. It just feels like going back to square one to run into things again."

"Then remind yourself how much it's changed. Remind yourself of the nights you _don't_ have nightmares. Remind yourself of the successes." Jensen decided it was time to turn the subject, letting that settle in for a while. "Have you ever told Dr. Cuddy what your father did with gifts?"

"I told her how he'd give them to me. Never told her what he did with mine. I eventually just stopped giving him or Mom anything that mattered; I knew it wouldn't last anyway."

"You didn't tell her what the nightmare was about last week?"

"No. She woke me up, but I just said I didn't want to talk about it."

"Try to tell her about it this next week." House tensed up again. "Trust is also a gift, Dr. House. I appreciate this book more because I know you weren't sure of giving it, but you did anyway. Dr. Cuddy appreciates the serenade at her wedding more because she knew it was a reach out of your comfort zone. Tell her the full reasons why you were so uncertain about that, why you dislike Christmas. Sharing that will itself be a gift to her, and it would be a very meaningful one."

House considered it. "I'll . . . try."

Jensen nodded. "Good. You really are getting better."

"Do you think my girls will know how screwed up I am?" House asked abruptly.

"I think your girls will know that they have a wonderful, loving father. They won't see you as screwed up, any more than Dr. Cuddy does now. Some day, long into the future, when they are old enough, maybe you will tell them how screwed up your father was. But unless you tell them, no, I don't think they will know what you've been through."

House looked relieved at that, still thoughtful. He looked at his watch. "Better wrap it up. I was late. I don't want to keep you."

Jensen accepted it. "I'm glad to see you again. I've missed you."

House was startled for a minute, then replied, "I've, um, missed you, too. These talks help."

"Good. You are making very quick progress, Dr. House. It's a pleasure to work with you and help you." Jensen looked back down at the book. "And thank you again for the book."

"You're welcome." No hesitation behind it that time.

House stood up, and Jensen followed. "Next week?" House said.

"Yes. Back to the usual schedule. By the way, guess what Melissa and Cathy and I are doing tonight?"

House considered. "Has to be something related to our session, or you wouldn't have mentioned it. Watching the Aristocats?"

"Got it in one. Cathy loves that movie." Jensen thought of his further plans for the next few weeks, of his Christmas present for Melissa, already purchased, an engagement ring. He would have liked to share that with House, who had been largely responsible for bringing them back together, but Melissa deserved to know first. He'd call House with her answer later and, assuming the answer was yes, he'd invite the House family, Abby included, to the eventual wedding next year. "I'll see you next week, Dr. House."

"Later." House left the office, and Jensen took another minute to flip through the book before putting it on his desk and heading off for his own evening with his family.


	59. Chapter 59

House opened the door to the house and stood there just watching for a minute. Rachel was on the floor, laughing, in pursuit of the kitten. House had to admit that the kitten had a feline sense of humor. She specialized in staying just ahead of wild grabs but just close enough to encourage them, and when Rachel would quiet down, the kitten would come closer and lie next to her, purring at full throttle. Rachel was intrigued. "Kitty!" she insisted, pulling herself up on the couch as the kitten jumped up. The kitten leaped back down, and Rachel reached too fast after and collapsed on the floor. Undeterred, she scrambled after the kitten again on all fours. "Kitty!"

Cuddy had heard the door and came in from the kitchen. "Hi. How was Jensen?"

"He's great. The session was interesting. Nice to get back to it."

"What about the book?"

"He liked it. I mean, of course he said so, but I think he really did." House nodded toward Rachel. "You'd better hurry up and name that cat before it gets tagged with Kitty for life."

"You could help, Greg."

House shook his head. "I'm incapable of coming up with an appropriate name for a small, white kitten. Besides, I already suggested at the shelter that we get that ragged old tom cat with half an ear gone instead. Could have named him . . . O'Malley the Alley Cat." He tripped for a moment at the name and shook his head in frustration, his mischievous look fading, the joking tone falling flat.

Cuddy felt a twinge of pure sympathy. He was getting so much better that it annoyed him even more when he did come crashing up against an obvious blank. It happened less frequently all the time, but it still happened. She knew better than to say anything. No point in telling him that he had made very rapid progress, or that he obviously would make a full recovery soon. He thought he should have made a full recovery two months ago. "We are NOT having a battle-worn tom cat named O'Malley the Alley Cat," she insisted, forcing her voice to be annoyed and strict instead of sympathetic.

House's grin revived slightly. "Course not. You know the shelters neuter them first. He would have been a tim cat by the time he got here. On second thought, don't know if I could stand putting him through that. But anyway, the little white kitten was your selection, so you name."

Cuddy studied the scene. She had to find a name House could live with, thus ruling out things like Snowflake. Hmmm.

"Kitty!" Rachel insisted, turning around the corner of the couch and spotting her father for the first time. "Dada!" The kitten was immediately abandoned, and cat-like, it hopped up on the coffee table, in the center of the room, and started a nonchalant bath as if ending the game had been its idea.

Rachel wobble-crawled at full speed toward House. She wanted to walk and was close to being able to but not quite there yet. "Dada." She reached his feet and started to scale his legs. "Up!"

House looked down at her. "You know what you want when you want it, don't you, Rachel?"

"UP!" she demanded, coming to the end of her height and knocking on his knee as if on a door. He bent over and picked her up.

"Hey, kid. Miss me today?"

"What ever gave you that idea?" Cuddy asked. Abruptly, she whirled and vanished back into the kitchen, suddenly remembering dinner in progress. House walked over to the piano.

"Do I have time to play something?"

"Not really. Better wait until after we eat."

"NO!":Rachel shouted as he turned away from the piano.

"NO!" he replied, tossing his nearest approximation of her tone back to her. She stared at him for a moment, surprised, then laughed again. He sat down on the couch, and she abruptly noticed the bathing kitten on the coffee table.

"Kitty! Dada, kitty!"

"Yes, I see it. And it had better learn fast that the piano bench is not a sharpening post." He gave the animal such a stern glare that Rachel cracked up again, reaching up to pat his face. "I mean it. You don't want to get me mad, cat. Can't you see I'm serious here, Rachel?" She laughed again.

"No use, Greg," Cuddy called from the kitchen. "I don't think you're going to convince Rachel that you can be a sarcastic, cynical jerk."

House rolled his eyes. "I'll have you know I'm infamous. Ask anybody at the hospital. I'm a veritable porcupine. Nobody messes with me."

The kitten at that moment stopped washing, looked over at him with head tilted as if considering his statement, then promptly jumped over, flopping down against his ribs, stretching one white paw up his chest as she purred like a helicopter. Rachel reached out to stroke the kitten gently, like they'd been trying to show her, but she was still looking at her father. House looked down into the two sets of eyes staring up at him adoringly. "It's a conspiracy," he protested. "Lisa, rescue me! I'm being purred on! And hugged! I don't know how long I can take it."

Cuddy laughed herself from the kitchen. "I'm too busy to rescue you right now, but you can take some comfort in the fact that nobody at the hospital would believe this without certified proof. Your reputation is safe."

He looked down at his two captors and bared his teeth in a snarl that didn't seem to phase either of them, in spite of his best efforts. Rachel only laughed again, and the kitten stretched a little further to pat his lips.

Yep, it was a conspiracy. Thank God the team wasn't here.

(H/C)

Later that evening, Cuddy came out of the nursery after putting Rachel down for the night. House had been on the couch when she went back to the nursery, but now she found him sitting at the keyboard of his piano again, not playing anything, just resting his hands on the black and white keys. She stood across the room for a moment, watching him, taking in the distant eyes and the subtle but bottomless sadness across his features that she longed more than anything to erase but that still crept in from time to time. "Greg?" It took her two more times before he heard her, and his gorgeous blues snapped into focus. "What were you thinking about?"

His lips twisted slightly. "Nothing half as good as what I've got right here." He stood up and came over to wrap his arms around her. It was hard to fight against deepening the kiss and getting delightfully distracted, but the knowledge that he was trying to distract her gave her strength.

"No." She pushed herself away from him slightly, gaining breathing space, and every inch of her body protested. "You can either tell me what's on your mind or not, but we're not going to pretend that nothing is."

He sighed and walked over to the couch, dropping wearily into it, and she came over to sit down next to him, her body molding against his. "Jensen liked the book," he repeated.

"I knew he would. You put so much time into thinking up that. I was sure he'd love it."

"He did." House was staring at the distant wall.

Cuddy gave him a minute, then prompted gently. "So why does it bother you?"

"I was absolutely tied up in knots by the time I got there. Nearly didn't give it to him."

Cuddy gave a puzzled frown. "It was a great gift, Greg. Why would you be . . ." She abruptly skidded to a verbal halt, and he felt anger flare through her entire body alongside his. "What did that bastard do? I mean, you've told me what he'd do when he gave you anything, and I've figured that's why you hate gifts on your birthday or Christmas. Is there more?" What she knew already was certainly enough by itself to explain his holiday aversion.

House cringed. _Is there more?_ How he wished for the day that he could tell her there wasn't. He knew, in spite of all the progress, he still wasn't close to the bottom of the well of suppressed memories and old fears. "There's always more," he replied softly, his voice cracking slightly on it.

Cuddy put her arm around his shoulders, pulling him over even more tightly against her, forcing her angry muscles to relax. Comforting him and being there for him right now had to take precedence over pummeling the ghost of John House. She wished she could retract that last question and phrase it differently, but it was already out there in the room with them. She reminded herself fiercely not to react too strongly, not to get too emotional with whatever he was going to tell her. His physical recovery had occupied both of them for so long that it had been a while since he had shared anything new from his childhood, but of course resuming the sessions with Jensen would open that door again. She should have expected it. "What did he do?" she asked, keeping her voice calm and level with an effort.

"I stopped trying to really give them anything that mattered pretty young, but at first, I would try to give them gifts at Christmas, or on their birthday. I even thought . . .when I was really young, I thought maybe if I gave him something good enough, he'd like me, and it would be all right." Cuddy shook her head silently, her heart breaking all over again for that frightened, bewildered child, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible, trying to be good enough to atone for whatever unknown sin had earned such punishment.

House let the silence lengthen a minute. "It was like getting gifts from him. There was the public reaction, and then the followup later. He would thank me at first, but when we were alone, he'd break it. Whatever I gave him - or Mom - he would destroy it, and I'd have to get down on the floor to pick up all the pieces and throw them away. And the whole time that . . . that bastard would be laughing at me for even thinking I could give somebody something they really cared about."

Cuddy was engaged in a full-out wrestling match with the anger now. She couldn't react too sharply, or House would shut down, but she wanted to kill John. She wanted to kill him repeatedly and keep digging him up for the pleasure of killing him again. To systematically destroy not only the gifts but the whole self-esteem of the giver like that. "Your mother never noticed them gone?" she asked, keeping her tone level, but her amazement at Blythe's obliviousness was second only to her anger at John.

House scoffed. "Of course she did, but he'd tell her I'd broken them. You've got to remember that she thought I was an uncoordinated, accident-prone disaster. He'd say I'd broken them - always accidentally - and she'd tell me that it didn't matter." He shuddered. "So both of them would wind up telling me that it didn't matter. Not that Mom meant it like he did, but . . . I just stopped trying. I tried to never give anybody anything - or if I did, I was such a jerk doing it that there was nothing left they could shoot down."

Cuddy abruptly stiffened next to him, her anger switching from parents to herself. "Oh God, Greg, when you gave me the desk and I never said anything, it _that _what you thought? That I was thinking that, just like your father did?"

He looked over at the far side of the room. "You never destroyed it."

But it had had significance for her before he gave it. Did he think that pre-existing connection to her past was the only thing differentiating a gift from him and garbage? "I apologize," she said. She pulled his head back over against her and buried her face in his graying chestnut hair. "I never realized . . ."

"Course you didn't," he replied. "Don't start crying, Lisa. You didn't know. It was just a misunderstanding."

They just held each other for a few minutes, Cuddy trying to fight the surge of guilt back down. "Wait a minute," she said suddenly. "Back before our wedding, those last few days when you were one increasing knot, that's why, wasn't it? You really thought I'd be mad at you for playing at the wedding? That I'd think it wasn't worth anything?"

He sighed. "I was a basket case. Ask Wilson. He doesn't know why, but he knows I wasn't sure about it." He shook his head. "I was pathetic."

Anger flared up again, blazing straight over the guilt. "No, you weren't. Greg, when I look at you, believe me, pity is one of the last things on my mind." She turned his face toward her, wanting him to see it. "I do _not _pity you. I can understand even more why you tried to avoid gifts, though. Giving or receiving. Is that what you had that nightmare about last week? I hadn't tied that to Rachel's birthday before, but it was the gifts that set it off, wasn't it?"

"Sort of." He looked away. He could never reveal the past to her while looking straight at her. "Giving gifts to kids is a little easier. They're less likely to lie or totally reject it. It was the gift itself that kicked that one off."

"But the kitten was your idea," she said, puzzled. "It never seemed to bother you when we were picking her out. It doesn't seem to bother you since, either."

"I didn't remember," he replied. "Not until that night." He went on to tell her the story of the puppy, and she was frozen in fury by the end. "And Rachel blamed me," he finished. He blinked back tears. "I don't ever want her - or Abby - to look at me like that."

"They won't, Greg. Think of tonight, even. You couldn't have convinced her you were an ogre if you'd tried - and we both know you weren't really trying. You'll never hurt them, not like that sonofabitch hurt you."

He looked back at her eyes, trying to gauge her confidence, trying to take some of it as his own. "Do we have to talk about this any more tonight?" he asked.

"No, of course not. Like you said earlier, we've got better things to discuss." She wrapped both arms around him, and they slid down from sitting next to each other to lying entwined on the couch. Finding each other's lips was like coming home after a long journey. "I have a suggestion for a way to spend the rest of the evening," Cuddy said a bit breathlessly as they broke apart purely for oxygen. "And I promise not to tell you to call the Make-a-Wish Foundation."

He looked straight back at her, those gorgeous blue eyes almost luminous in the lamp light, his answer poignantly simple. "Why would I want to?"


	60. Chapter 60

_January 31st. _

House had been to the courthouse a few times before in his life - during the Tritter fiasco, for one - and it had never held positive associations. Today, he was determined that it would, determined to shut out the negatives. Fate was pushing him on that decision, because 30 minutes before he and Cuddy would be appearing before the judge to finalize Rachel's formal adoption, the drunk driver was due to be sentenced in another courtroom just down the hall.

"You can go to the sentencing and meet us there," Cuddy offered one final time as they were getting ready that morning. "You can fit in both. I can meet you with Rachel."

"No," he insisted. "Whatever they give him, it isn't enough, and whatever they give him, we've managed to fight on past the accident. It's irrelevant anymore. I'm not going to go in there and look at that idiot again and get annoyed. Today isn't about him. Today is about our daughters."

Cuddy smiled, although it quickly turned into a worried glance around the room for dropped details. Today, finally, Abby would be coming home from the hospital. They were picking her up this afternoon after court with Rachel this morning. The bedroom now had a smaller crib in it, on Cuddy's side, next to the bed, and less homey but more to the point, there was all sorts of medical equipment. Oxygen stood ready if needed, and a pulse oximeter and alarms waited for duty. Abby would be hooked up to monitors still at night. Both of her parents had been trained in infant CPR. Eventually, Abby would be moved into the nursery with Rachel, but while she was still so closely monitored for the initial homecoming period, she would be here.

Cuddy knew that their daughter was ready. In fact, they had had a "trial run" two days ago, spending the night in a private room at the hospital with Abby fully under their care but the nurses available at the push of a button if needed. Neither she nor House had gotten much sleep that night, not because of problems with Abby, who was reassuringly stable throughout, but simply through being lost for the first time in privacy as a family. In all Abby's short and tumultuous life, there had been no privacy. It had never simply been the three of them. The pure wonder of it had kept them awake even as their daughter slept.

House came up behind Cuddy, squeezing her shoulders. "Relax. We have everything we could possibly need. The NICU staff even made a home visit to approve it."

"I can't believe she's finally going to be ours."

"We'll have time to enjoy her for a while, too." And to make sure things were stable, although House didn't emphasize that. He and Cuddy were both taking family medical leave, House for the next two weeks and Cuddy continuing for another two after that. The nanny wouldn't be taking over during the day for a month - and the nanny, too, would be trained in infant CPR just in case.

"Just think of her actually being here. And Rachel. She'll be able to get to know her."

House nodded. "We've got to be sure to keep giving Rachel attention. She won't understand so much with Abby at first is medical."

"We will." Cuddy promised. She spun around suddenly to face him, intending to kiss him, wanting to share it all, but neither of them had noticed the white kitten creeping through the door and sitting down between their feet. Cuddy stumbled while trying to avoid stepping on the cat, House tried to catch Cuddy, and they wound up doing an impromptu balancing scramble for a few seconds. The kitten, the cause of the commotion and the least affected, hopped up on the bed and started washing her ears. "Belle!" Cuddy scolded. The kitten, afflicted with sudden deafness, did not look over at them, continuing her ablutions. "Are you okay, Greg?"

"Fine," he replied shortly, annoyance rippling the surface of his tone slightly, like hidden rocks beneath a river. He hadn't twisted his leg doing that dance step, fortunately, but the ever-present awareness made it the first thought for her as well as him. The eternal antecedent. He wished they were able to forget about it, even while he knew they never quite could.

Cuddy heard the mild irritation and quickly switched the subject. "We'll have to be sure to keep the door in here closed at night. Don't want her to chase a monitor line or something."

"We will," House agreed. "She's got a lot of sense for a cat, though." She did, knowing when to play and when to back off and be gentle with Rachel. "Maybe she might be as good someday as a battered old tom cat named O'Malley the Alley Cat."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "I'm glad you've come around to my selection." House loved the cat, but he would never admit it. Belle returned the favor, as smitten with House as Rachel was. Cuddy looked at her watch. "We'd better hurry. You need to finish getting dressed."

House reluctantly started to button up the sky blue shirt he'd been wearing open over his T-shirt. "Why do I need to wear a tie today, anyway? I didn't even do anything. I'm not on trial this time, and you won't have to commit perjury."

Cuddy grabbed the camera from the dresser. "One, because you're supposed to wear a tie to court, and two, we need to look right in the pictures. Just think, Greg, years down the road, Rachel will look at that picture of us with the judge, and she'll appreciate this milestone in her life, even if she doesn't remember it."

"And she'll wonder who on earth that guy in a suit and tie is standing next to her mother," House quipped. "If we want her to recognize me, blue jeans and a rock T-shirt would be a better choice."

Cuddy picked up the hated tie and threw it at him. "Put. It. On." Her tone left no room for negotiation. She turned to leave the bedroom. "I'll make sure the nanny has Rachel all ready. Five minutes, Greg."

With Cuddy gone, he absentmindedly hung the tie loosely around his neck, then finished buttoning up the last few buttons of the dress shirt. He looked at Belle, sitting on the bed watching him. "Did you feel like this getting a ribbon for Rachel's birthday? I apologize, Cat." She arched and walked across the covers to him, purring loudly, and he reached down to scratch her ears. He'd never had a pet before other than Steve McQueen, but having something so small and dependent, yet so trusting, something that didn't know his past or his reputation and didn't care, was refreshingly soothing. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. The cat even made a nice portable heating pad, and she had very quickly learned to be gentle in arranging herself across his bad leg. "Not bad for a cat," he told her, leaning over a bit to scratch under her neck, and as the loose tie ends swung out slightly, she made a lightning-fast grab and hooked the end of the tie. "That's _mine_," House protested, grabbing it. The kitten retreated, still hanging onto her prize, and the tie stretched like a tug-of-war rope between them. "Seriously, Cat. Let go. For the moment. After today, you can steal it and hide it somewhere, and maybe Lisa won't notice." Belle crouched, growling under her breath as she held onto her end, and House bared his teeth and growled back.

Rachel's laughter from the door startled both of them, and House turned quickly to see Cuddy standing there holding their daughter and looking at him in disbelief. "Gregory House, stop playing with the cat and get ready!"

"She started it!" he insisted. Belle growled as if in agreement.

"I don't care who started it. We are leaving in two minutes flat, and you'll have it on and tied by then."

Rachel stretched out her arms toward the kitten. "Belle! Kitty!"

"Not right now," Cuddy objected. "You're all nice and neat. You don't need to flop around with the cat."

"Dada!" Rachel changed targets. House started to reach for her with his free hand, and Cuddy stepped back.

"He's busy. Come on, Greg. In another 10 seconds, I'll take a picture of you playing with the cat and include it in the next PPTH newsletter."

The tie snapped free from Belle's startled paws. "Spoilsport," House grumbled as he put it around his neck. He tied it, and Cuddy stepped forward to straighten it slightly. "Does that pass inspection, your majesty?"

"Yes. You look quite nice. You ought to dress up more often."

"Forget it," he grumbled. "I only do this on rare special days for my girls." He snapped his fingers at the kitten. "Out, Cat!" he ordered, and she stood, yawned, stretched, and after sufficient consideration to maintain dignity, hopped off the bed and sauntered out the bedroom door. He closed the door as they left, sealing off all the tantalizing medical equipment.

Cuddy gave a sigh of pure contentment as they left the house. "Just think, Greg. Tonight, for the first time, all of us will really be together as a family."

He couldn't hold back the smile. "Right. It's going to be wonderful."

No, the drunk driver had no part in this day. Today was purely for his girls. All three of them.


	61. Chapter 61

Wilson hadn't been able to believe it when House told him he didn't want to go to the sentencing.

Seriously? House, who carried grudges like a bulldog locked onto a target? House, who Wilson knew was still angry at the idiot who had crashed literally and figuratively into his family's life and had come frighteningly close to killing three out of the four of them? He had testified at the trial, and Wilson knew he wasn't close to forgiving the jerk. Yet he insisted from the time that the scheduling was announced that he would not attend.

It didn't make sense. House said simply that today was reserved totally for his girls, Rachel's adoption being finalized in the morning, Abby going home this afternoon, and the House family's rescheduled Christmas tonight. Those plans had been made before the defense lawyer had finally agreed to a date for sentencing. In fact, Wilson almost wondered if the defense lawyer had found Rachel's case on the docket and deliberately tried for a conflict. House had done his client no favors at all in his testimony at the trial. But if so, it made even less sense for House to simply accept being manipulated.

The times were close but not exclusive. House could have done all he wanted to today and gone to the sentencing as well. No, Wilson didn't understand it.

Which was why Wilson had decided to go himself.

This wasn't interfering, he told himself, because he had no intention of forcing his observations on House. He'd simply attend, and he'd let House know that if he ever wanted a blow-by-blow account, which Wilson was sure he would at some point in the near future, Wilson would be able to provide it. The courtrooms were public. He had as much right here as anybody.

So it was that Wilson found himself sitting in the courtroom, fighting to remain seated when he increasingly wanted to strangle the driver. For the first time, he started to understand House's motives, how it would be impossible to enjoy the landmark of Rachel's adoption while still boiling over from listening to the defense lawyer less than an hour before.

"And, your honor," the lawyer continued smoothly, "while this was my client's second offense, the first offense was over a year ago. He has a safe driving record from that time to the date of the accident in October. He has already voluntarily gone to AA since then." To try to look good for the court, Wilson thought. "And while there were injuries resulting from the accident - " Injuries? _Injuries?_ He almost wiped out 75% of the House family in one blow. "- no one was killed, and everyone injured has recovered." Except that they won't know fully on Abby developmentally for a while, have to watch how she hits milestones, Wilson snapped silently. And that "recovery" you're passing off so lightly took months of pain, stress, and medical bills. And they can never have any more kids. "My client regrets his actions that night and realizes he should have dealt with stress better. He is taking steps since to turn his life around, so we ask for leniency." The driver, carefully dressed to look clean, neat, and responsible in court, produced his carefully rehearsed repentant and now responsible look that the lawyer had gone over with him. Wilson had actually seen the final rehearsal in the hall outside the courtroom doors that morning, arriving just as the lawyer was giving final pointers to his client.

Wilson locked both hands on the edge of the bench to physically hold himself in the seat. Leniency? He hoped House sued the driver civilly. Of course, the insurance companies were still fighting it out between the driver's insurance and the PPTH coverage on House's family, and that might well wind up in court. Abby's medical bills, for one, ran into hundreds of thousands, and the bills for House and Cuddy both were substantial. But when it came down to it, this wasn't about money. It was about responsibility.

The judge frowned. "I'm aware that the injured parties have recovered, but this could quite easily have been a fatal accident. I hope your client does stay in AA even after this hearing and continues to reform, but my ruling is a fine of $1000, loss of license for 2 years, and 30 days of community service. He will also have to serve 10 days shock time in jail." The gavel came down. "So ruled. Next case."

The driver turned to the lawyer, frowning, as they walked up the aisle. "You said you'd get me off lightly."

Wilson couldn't take it. He nearly erupted off his seat, and while the driver's comment had been whispered, Wilson's was far from it. "Get you off LIGHTLY? Do you have ANY idea how much pain and stress you inflicted on them? And you could have KILLED them. Does that mean ANYTHING to you?"

The judge looked up, and the bailiff started in that direction. The driver looked blankly at Wilson. "Who the hell are you?" he asked. Wilson had been at the trial but hadn't testified, not having had anything to testify to. He hadn't been at the accident scene. The driver hadn't bothered to look behind him to people merely watching the trial.

The lawyer, of course, knew who Wilson was and nudged his client into silence just as the bailiff got there. "Sir," the bailiff said to Wilson, "this is a courtroom. Disruptions will not be tolerated."

Wilson shook his head, fighting to keep from punching the man right there. "House should have hit you harder that night," he snapped. "But nothing you get even starts to approach what you did to him."

The bailiff grasped Wilson's arm. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"I'm leaving. I don't want to share air space with this idiot any longer." Wilson spun away and stalked out. Into the hall and down it, intent on going somewhere, anywhere away from that lawyer and his client before Wilson committed assault himself. He rounded a corner at full steam, not paying attention, and slammed straight into his friend.

"Oh, excuse me, I wasn't . . ." he started to apologize automatically, then stopped in horror. "House! Are you okay?"

This was the second time this morning somebody had asked him that question with special, leg-aware emphasis, first Cuddy, now Wilson. "Fine," House snapped, stepping back away from Wilson's hands, which were automatically reaching out to support him after he'd already gotten his balance back. Fortunately, Wilson had run into him on the left. His right leg had twinged sharply at the weight shift on impact, but it was settling back to the usual deep gnawing ache. No real harm done.

"What's the matter, Wilson?" Cuddy asked. "Were you afraid you'd be late to see Rachel?"

House abruptly stiffened, his eyes fastening on Wilson's. "No, he went to the sentencing," he realized suddenly.

"Why would -" Cuddy broke off as Wilson's own features convicted him.

"Because I wouldn't," House answered for the oncologist. "So he thought he'd play stand-in. Wilson, whatever happened, I don't want to hear it. I told you today was for the girls."

Wilson nodded, trying to slow down his pulse, trying to stomp the flames of fury down into embers. "I apologize. I just thought . . . I think I do understand now."

House turned away. "Come on, let's go get Rachel adopted."

"If you do want to know anything later . . ." the oncologist started.

House spun around. "If I do, I'll pick the time, and I'll bring it up, and it _will not _be today. If you can't live with that, leave instead of going into court with us."

"I will . . . um, I mean I won't . . . I mean I. . . "

Cuddy smoothly stepped into the gap. "Come on, Wilson, Greg. We don't want to keep the judge waiting."

Together they entered, Wilson trailing slightly guiltily behind the House family. He had been invited ("She needs somebody to take pictures," House had said, trying to dismiss it, but Wilson understood the bilateral sincerity of the invitation), but the oncologist still was having trouble scene shifting from the previous courtroom and this one.

This judge had a smile on his face. He called the family up to his bench and said, "This is one of the most pleasant duties a judge has. I'm happy to be able to finalize the adoption of Rachel House, and I have no doubt she'll have a wonderful life with her family."

Cuddy took a deep breath, fighting back tears. A year ago, when she was fretting over bonding with Rachel, she could never have imagined standing here today not only with Rachel but with House, and with another daughter waiting to come home. "Thank you, Your Honor."

House gave her arm a squeeze, letting her feel his presence. "Thank you," he repeated.

Rachel perked up in Cuddy's arms, looking from one to the other of her parents, and then piped up with "Tank you," echoing them. Wilson laughed along with everybody else in the courtroom, and the anger fell away for now.

"And now that we're all official, let's go out for lunch," House said, quickly turning away as soon as the judge signed the papers. Cuddy reached out just as quickly and hooked him by the hated tie, pulling him back.

"Pictures, Greg." He groaned under his breath. "Several pictures, in case one doesn't come out. Wilson, get up here."

Wilson came up to take the camera. He was now wearing what House famously called his dopey grin. "Relax, House, and smile. Say cheese."

"Say I'm not putting on this penguin suit again for at least 6 months," House snarled, trying to look gruff, although he was smiling around the edges. He couldn't help it.

"Wrong," Cuddy corrected. "Jensen's wedding is in late March." House rolled his eyes. "And you _are_ wearing a suit to that. And a tie."

Wilson stepped back, centering the shot. The judge was smiling, Cuddy absolutely radiant, Rachel totally content, and even House looked like he might be enjoying himself. "Take it before we die of hunger here," House snapped at that moment, and Wilson's dopey grin widened as he snapped the picture. And another. And a third, at Cuddy's insistence, just in case.

And then the official family, plus best friend, headed out for lunch before going to the hospital. House, of course, ditched the tie the minute they reached the car and threw it in the back seat. Cuddy didn't even say anything. Right now, she was too happy to care.

Her family. After just over a year with Rachel, a very eventful year, she and Rachel would be not only an official family but a complete one tonight. Christmas in January. She couldn't wait.


	62. Chapter 62

A/N: First, this is the last chapter of Onslaught. For the moment, nothing else in line. That may change in the future, may not. We'll see. My muse does what she wishes. Thanks so much for the reviews.

Second, my reactions to the finale, so if you don't want spoilers, skip on ahead. HL and LE are brilliant actors and did a great job on this ep. So did the woman, whoever played her. I actually would have loved this episode if it had been a movie, if it had been a stand-alone with characters only from this one, if it hadn't been a finale of House. If my major complaint against S6 and House in general had been "give us Huddy and ditch Lucas," yes, I would have been satisfied. But that wasn't my major complaint against S6, and they repeated everything that is on my objectionable list of S6 and then added one more at the end, the "from massive, major, several chapter/episode incredible conflicts and problems to we're good in 60 seconds" phenomenon. I've never bought that. Not in House, not in anything. To have 400 pages of conflict and resolve it abruptly in the final paragraph is not a technique I admire or believe. Life isn't like that. Yes, okay, this is fiction, but I like it to reflect life, unless an outright parody. I'm as Huddy as they come, but no. I don't care what ship it is, having a final-few-seconds instaresolution after nothing but conflict that you've shown in detail for thousands of times as long as that isn't believable to me. That's precisely why Onslaught has had such an extended spin-down; because having spun it up to the level of difficulties that I did, to just abruptly say "and everything was okay now" in one line does not work. I admired the acting last night. I wish I could have savored the moment. Instead, it felt contrived for the sake of a "let's surprise them in the last 60 seconds of the finale" purpose. It also felt like bribery, a band-aid slapped on to try to appease those whose main complaint against S6 was lack of Huddy. Nope, S6 needed more than a band-aid IMHO and needed bandages from a far more extensive kit.

The things I already disliked about S6 were all there, too. To begin with, House and Cuddy even being at that scene totally threw logic, established character, and established medical history out the window purely for the sake of putting them in a situation of psychological stress. Why an administrator no longer actively practicing and a disabled diagnostician should rush to be first-line triage responders at a catastrophe while actively practicing and well-bodied doctors stay behind at PPTH in the ER is absurd. Would not happen. I don't care how psychologically stressful it made things for more episode angst, it would not happen. The only way the setup in Help Me possibly could have been sold to me is to have somehow had the collapse happen while they both happened to be there on scene before that, so they were already in the right place at the right time through coincidence and dealt with what was happening around them, a la Airborne, a neat episode. Disaster erupting around you while you happened to be there, and you are the best equipped of the limited choices there to assist, works. But for House and Cuddy to leave the hospital and go join the first responders (clear in a different city) instead of helping out at the hospital, where there was much to be helped out with and managed and far more in line with their current skills and abilities? No. Right there, in the first two minutes, the show asked for a suspension of disbelief that was so large that I could not do it. They've pushed my willing suspension of disbelief so far this season that it already was hanging by a thread. Right at the beginning of Help Me, it snapped, and from that point, a good part of me was watching with a giant "Oh, come on!" hanging in a thought balloon over my head. I didn't want to watch it like that. I was admiring the acting and would have loved to enjoy the episode, but that first hurdle was too far to jump for me, not after they've pushed that exact point of conveniently disregarding their own facts throughout S6. That, not lack of Huddy, is probably the leading complaint against this season for me.

On they went down the line. Cuddy being inconsistent? Check. Immature schoolgirlishness? Check. Must admit, LE sold it in this episode, but having her immediately think that House's wanting the woman to keep her leg was to "get back at me" was, as House called it, narcissism. Surely a doctor in general and House in specific had plenty of other reasons to try to avoid an amputation for a patient unless there were no other options left. Her knee-jerk "it must be about me" reaction was straight out of junior high. House doing things he could not have physically done? Check. At least they made him hurt for it at the end, but he couldn't have done it. Period. Not based on the facts they had created from the beginning of the canon. Past details altered? Check. Unprofessionalism to a ludicrous extent, in this case doctors yet again having personal conversations while treating patients? Check. (Wilson and House discussing Luddy on the cell phone while one was actively in the ER working and another was actively at the disaster site working was yet another toss professionalism for psychological intrigue moment. Uh uh.)

On the positive side, there wasn't the usual overfocus on Thirteen screen time. And Foreman's scene at the end was probably my favorite for the series for him. I don't even like him, but OE totally sold that moment. Well done. I'm glad House didn't take the Vicodin (although since at least 90% of his pain, as they have presented throughout S6, is psychological and due to lack of Cuddy, I'm sure he felt much, much better just as soon as they kissed. Practically not hurting at all. Insert the sarcasm icon here. Who knows, from their S6 POV, maybe if she'd just kissed him instead of trying to treat him medically back in Three Stories, he might have never required surgery at all.). I'm glad he got a few seconds of happiness, even if happiness that felt contrived. I'm glad my last shot of HL's wonderful acting on this show let him be happy for once after all his amazing angst skills on display.

Farewell, House. I will not be back for S7. I love Huddy, but you can't fix it with a 2-minute Huddy band-aid when it wasn't Huddy or any other ship that was the main thing broken about it.

(H/C)

NICU was decorated with balloons and a banner saying, "Goodbye, Abby!" In previous years, House would have rolled his eyes and scoffed at the display, automatically thinking it was fake, but having been through almost 4 months of NICU procedures at this point, having gotten to know the other cases and seen the other parents, having been through all the ups and downs and seen a few more "graduation parties," the whole thing suddenly didn't feel as hollow. It wasn't just a show to make people feel better about themselves. Those nurses had cared about Abby, had fought for her daily in the trenches. The other parents had asked about her, and more than one IPod was in the NICU at this point, with a full-scale sound system in the plans. As House limped into NICU for hopefully the final time, he couldn't deny the surge of emotion. Even Abby's third-shift nurse was there, having interrupted her sleeping schedule for this early afternoon send-off, and she had tears of happiness glistening in her eyes, just like Cuddy did. Some of the other parents had come to see it, and a round of applause broke out as House and Cuddy entered NICU. Wilson was holding Rachel at the window.

Cuddy looked around at the assembly, overwhelmed at the support these staff and other parents had given her the last few months. "Thank you," she said, the tears threatening to spill over.

House had headed straight for Abby's bed. She was in a small bed, no longer an enclosed incubator, and she had her eyes open, definitely trying to follow the excitement with an expression of curious wonder on her face. "Hey, Abby," he said, reaching out to pick her up. "Ready to go home?" She focused on him, smiling. She knew him and Cuddy specifically by now, of course. She was still undersized, and she was still very quiet, but she definitely responded to the world now, watching it as if trying to make sense of it all. They would not have a final answer developmentally for a while, but House hoped, watching her, that any residual effects would be minor. She was one of the most attentive and interactive babies in NICU by this point. She was eating normally now, both bottles and nursing. She was breathing on her own, though still on monitors while asleep, and she was gaining weight. The biggest residual problem so far had been her eyes, with retinopathy of prematurity, and she had had a few rounds of laser surgery. According to their limited testing, things were looking better, and she seemed to be able to see and track things, but again, full testing of her vision would have to come down the road.

House cradled her, looking down at her face. At that moment, Wilson tapped on the glass, and House looked up to the sound just in time to see the camera flash. He scowled at his friend, and Wilson gave him an innocent grin and tried to draw Rachel's attention to her little sister. Rachel was definitely watching House, but Wilson wasn't sure how much she had noticed Abby.

Cuddy came up beside him, reaching out, and he passed the tiny baby over as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the camera flash again, getting a picture of the two of them with their daughter. "Abby," Cuddy said softly, and Abby reached out with a hand, wrapping it in the front of her mother's scrubs.

The neonatologist approached them. "Well, we've been over all the instructions, of course, and you're all set up at home. Call with any problems at all, and we'll see her at her appointment next week."

"We'll be there," Cuddy said. "Thank you so much."

"Thanks," House agreed gruffly.

The doctor smiled. "I love seeing them finally go home. Not as much as you do, I know, but this is the best part of this specialty."

The line of nurses was closing in now, all of them smiling, saying their farewells. House looked at the other parents there, hanging back around the edges. He felt for them. Many times, he and Cuddy had been the ones watching, afraid to hope too much that their child would be next. The crowd of well-wishers pushed in. House appreciated it, even though he never would have admitted it outright, but as he stood there, his leg eventually began to protest. Standing still too long always got to him. He hated to break up Cuddy's moment, though, as she seemed to want to thank every person there personally. He stood motionless as long as he could before finally having to minutely shift his weight, trying to hide it.

She noticed instantly, trailing off. She didn't draw attention to him in public, but she instantly went into wrapping-it-up mode. "We appreciate all of you, but we're ready to go home now. It's been a long wait. Thank you so much. Come on, Greg." Still holding Abby, she turned to the door. They removed the scrubs in the entry room, passing Abby back and forth to free up hands, and then they headed on to the outer hall where Wilson and Rachel waited. House fished out his car keys.

"Wilson, go get the car, would you?" Between juggling two kids at the exit, he and Cuddy would have their hands full.

"Sure." Wilson passed Rachel to her father and headed for the main lobby. House and Cuddy followed more slowly. It wasn't just the NICU staff; a good portion of PPTH had assembled to see the send-off. Cuddy was smiling right and left, but she kept walking this time, knowing House needed to get off his leg soon.

"Isn't this wonderful, Greg?" she said as they came up to the exit. "She's finally ours."

"And it even happened without me wearing a tie right now," he pointed out.

She laughed, seeing his own glistening blue eyes, knowing that he'd never admit publicly to being moved by everything. "You'll be glad of it when you look at those pictures at court someday."

He grinned at her. "Want to bet?"

She shook her head. "I wouldn't do that to you. I'd win too easily." Wilson pulled their car up into the circle. "Let's go home, Greg. Let's _all _go home."

He had nothing he could possibly object to about that.

(H/C)

Later that night, just the four of them, they sat in their living room. Rachel was playing with some of her new "Christmas" toys, trying to share them with Belle. Cuddy was nursing Abby, and looking down at her daughter, she felt like life could not get any better. Finally, she had a family. House was holding the ancient Greek medical textbook she had given him, but his attention was far more on his "girls" than on the book. She looked up, catching his luminous blue eyes on her. "Merry Christmas, Greg," she said.

"Merry Christmas, Lisa." For the first time in his life, there was full sincerity behind the phrase. Last year, when she had first gotten Rachel, he'd wished her Merry Christmas with a bittersweet twinge. Nothing bitter about tonight.

"What is it?" she asked as his eyes went distant.

"I, um, had another gift for you," he said tentatively.

She looked down at the diamond pendant he had given her. "Besides the necklace?"

He nodded, still hesitating on the delivery.

"Well, don't tease me with it, Greg. Where is it? I don't see another box."

He set the book aside and stood up. "Actually, it's in the biggest box of all. I don't know how you missed the wrappings on this one. It's been right under your nose." His tone was joking now.

"Where under my nose?" She looked around the living room, seeing nothing that hadn't been there all along.

"Here," he replied. He walked over to the piano and sat down, giving the baby grand a pat.

Her smile widened. "You're going to play Cuddy's Serenade for me?"

He shook his head. "No. Not right now, anyway. Cuddy's Serenade was about what we could have together. This one is about what we do have together. This one is called Lisa's Song."

And as she watched, as Rachel stopped paying attention to her toys and the cat, as Abby turned that way in wonder, hearing live music for the first time, his hands caressed the ivory keys, and the piano sang to his family.


	63. Chapter 63

Coming someday (probably not soon, at least not by your standards) to a computer near you:

**Medical Homicide**

A full-length story set in the Pranks universe and containing lots of House, Cuddy, Huddy, the girls, a healthy helping of Jensen, enough Wilson for spice (I think he's a fantastic supporting character and adds a lot, but I quickly lose interest in Wilson-centric stuff; just my opinion, I know), and lots of humor, romance, cuteness, angst, conflict, and problems. And problems. And did I mention problems?

Just thought I'd let you know that my muse has just today, on the weekly drive back from the nursing home to visit Mom, grabbed onto something in a full-lock bite and started quickly putting up scaffolding for another full-lengther.

However, lots of work left to be done on this one, since it just started, and real life is also insane. My recent surgery in the middle of this already-nuts summer didn't do anybody any favors. The story work can be done mostly mentally and won't require sole-task time until I start actually writing it down, but real life must be dealt with and unfortunately does take designated time and attention, and parts of it are neither stable nor under my control.

But I've had so many requests and questions about the health of the Pranks universe, I thought I'd let you know there is another one out there on the burner. Thanks for all the interest; it does help to think people want it.

Patience is a virtue and will ultimately be rewarded. :)

In the House.


End file.
